A Tangled Web
by WalkingWit
Summary: Another tourney, another mystery knight, another missing Stark girl. AU in which Rhaegar and Lyanna lived, Aegon is crown prince and engaged to Arya though he is infatuated with Sansa, Rhaenys is alive, and Jon is a Targaryen. Arya falls for a blacksmith and her actions cause a chain reaction of changes in the Red Keep.
1. Chapter 1

**I originally posted this on my tumblr at post/58718643413/i-wrote-a-thing. I've since decided to continue it because I've got loads of ideas in my head, so here it goes. _Another Stark girl, another tourney, another mystery knight, another war. AU in which Rhaegar, Lyanna, Aegon, and Rhaenys did not die. Aegon is crown prince, betrothed to Arya of House Stark, Jon Targaryen's half-cousin. Jon is prince, and Rhaenys princess._**

* * *

_Arya Stark never wanted this life. She never wanted to be betrothed to a prince, especially if that prince was in love with her sister. And she never thought her sister would be in love with their cousin, the prince's half-brother. She never intended to leave Winterfell, let alone incite another war. Then again, they never truly ever get what they want._

The blacksmith's hands are large and calloused and warm and he's not afraid to touch her, to bend her, to break her, like Aegon is. His mouth is hot on hers and she moans against it. He pushes her back flush against the wall of the small forge, his work forgotten. Her hands rake through black hair and his hands find their way beneath her damned dress, to her smallclothes.

They meet upon her arrival to King's Landing. She is glad to be near Jon, her cousin, and her Aunt Lyanna, but she mislikes the King and his son. Rhaenys is far more pleasant to be around, at least. Arya is to be sold to the Iron Throne as Aegon's bride, and there is nothing she could do about it. She threw a fit at Winterfell. She threatened to run away, to hang herself, to kill him in his sleep on their wedding night. She was never meant to be a queen, and she wished Sansa had been the one to go in her place. But she is already in King's Landing, with her septa and the Tyrell girl, looking for potential suitors.

She meets Gendry in a smithy somewhere in the middle of King's Landing. The sword Jon had gifted her for her tenth birthday is too small now that she taller at the age of sixteen. She expects an old man at the forge, and instead she sees a young man with broad shoulders and large muscles and the bluest eyes she has ever seen stare back at her.

He calls her m'lady and she calls him stupid, wondering what this oaf of a man can do with his hands. She later finds that in addition to those hands belonging to the best apprentice smith in King's Landing if not the whole of seven kingdoms, those hands also know how to make her weak in the knees and turn into a silly little girl.

As the Queen's niece, she is given a great deal of leeway in the Red Keep. She roams free without guards, though Daenerys sometimes accompanies her to the training yard. She finds herself creeping into the streets of King's Landing, towards the smithy, more than once. What starts as light-hearted conversation while he works turns into subtle glances. Those glances turn into intense stares, and those stares turn into a touch on the shoulder here, a hand on the back there. Those in turn become fervent kissing and touching and panting when she sneaks away at night and comes very, very close to ruining her reputation.

The first time she and Gendry kiss, they are in the forge and meet in the middle. His lips are chapped and his grip on her waist loose. She grips the thin fabric of his tunic and pulls him closer to her, greedily, and his hold around her tightens. He pulls away, full of apologies until she silences him with more kisses.

She thinks it foolish to continue seeing him in daylight at his place of employ. Being the resourceful girl she is, she sneaks out of the castle in the middle of the night, bypassing the guards as quiet as a shadow.

He panics upon seeing her in his small room in the middle of the night, but she silences him with a finger to his lips before she starts kissing him.

"Have you kissed anyone before?" he asks between nips against her neck.

"No," she says, flushing at her inexperience, "you?"

"No," he answers. She does not know if he's lying, but a smile breaks out across her face nonetheless.

With each visit, the kisses become more fervent, more rough and fast. By the fifth week, they find themselves in his small bed, pressed against each other. Arya rests her head on Gendry's muscular chest, his arm wrapped around her shoulder. She bites her lip when he reminds her of her upcoming wedding. She tells him to shut up, that she would sooner run away than marry Prince Aegon. He looks at her with deep blue eyes and asks her if she would run away. With him. She remains silent and he tenses beside her.

"You're a lady, Arya. You have a duty to your family, I understand," he says quietly.

"No," she shakes her head and lifts herself up to lean over him.

"I don't have a family, but you do. Go to them," Gendry says, brushing his thumb over her cheek.

"I can be your family," she says.

He smiles, "You'd be m'lady."

"Shut up," she chuckles, punching him lightly.

"Make me," he says in a low voice, nearly growling.

She kisses him hard and fast, settling herself on top of him, hips moving in time with his. He is hers as she is his, and she swears to him that she will never be anyone else's. As they drift off to sleep, he kisses her shoulders and she promises again. He grins at her fondly and simply holds her, knowing Arya of House Stark could never marry him, but he can love her, and she can love him back.

* * *

Aegon is polite. Aegon is courteous. Aegon is half in love with Sansa Stark. His lovely Martell and Targaryen features are marred whenever his half-brother spends his time with his cousin. Arya knows the mess Jon and Sansa have gotten themselves into. She knows it will never end well. Jon has always doted on her like a little sister, and was the same with Sansa up until the elder girl's twelfth name day. After that, something changed between them, and now they steal away into secluded corners when they think no one is watching. So she ends up a sacrifice to appease Aegon while Jon and Sansa sneak off and do whatever it is they do. She is happy for her sister and cousin's happiness. She only wishes Aegon would cast her aside for Margaery Tyrell as Lyanna hopes. While Aegon is polite and courteous and half in love with Sansa, he is also possessive and prone to madness, especially if left with his uncle Viserys. Arya is too Northern, to brash, too hot-headed to deal with Aegon for the rest of her life, this Lyanna knows all too well.

Daenerys, Rhaegar's younger sister, is Arya's only saving grace at this point. She is everything a lady and princess should be, but she also likes to train with Arya at swords and they are both tired of life at court and the pageantry of it all. Arya thinks had Daenerys been a man, she would not mind marrying into the Targaryen family.

The wedding nears closer and the blacksmith becomes quieter, more withdrawn. Arya pokes and prods and finds herself near tears when he can't even bring himself to look at her. He calls her m'lady and tells her she should go back to her fancy fiancé and fancy castle. She doesn't know what to say. Had she imagined swearing she would never be anyone else's?

She can't find the words, so she punches him and storms out.

* * *

It's a tourney for the Prince's name day, and the princes (Aegon and Jon both) are competing, though in different lists. Aegon has resigned himself to the fact that he is marrying Arya, and she hates him for it. He tries to spend more time with her, to get to know her. She avoids him whenever possible. Aegon makes an effort, but Arya cannot force herself to like him, let alone love him. He would make any other girl (but a Stark) happy. Tyrell, Lannister, Frey, anyone but her or Sansa.

She sits high in the stands with the royal family. Rhaegar Lyanna, Daenerys, Rhaenys, Viserys (who chose not to compete), along with Sansa, sit near her.

She watches as Jon and Aegon destroy each of the competitors, and in the end, Jon wins the jousting tournament. He says he chose not to compete in combat so that his older brother will stand a chance at winning as it is his name day.

Aegon is the final fighter, he and a mystery knight with a bull's helmet. Arya knows that helmet anywhere. She has seen it enough times to know it's him.

Her heart catches in her throat and she holds onto the railings as Gendry slams his war hammer against Aegon again and again. Aegon is a strong fighter and skilled, but Gendry has brute strength while Aegon is willowy like his father. A spectator may assume Lady Arya is concerned for her betrothed. Sansa eyes her and knows that she is not.

Aegon crashes onto the ground, yielding. He takes the helmet off of his head, his dark skin and silver hair a contrast. He takes the mystery knight's hand and raises it in victory and congratulations. He tells the man to take his helmet off, so he does. He lifts the bull's helm off and tosses it onto the ground. The crowd bursts into applause for this stranger who bested their prince. His eyes meet Arya's, only Arya's, and her heart beats so rapidly she's sure all of King's Landing can hear. From beside her Lyanna lets out a breathy _Robert_ so quietly only Arya hears.

He is given a wreath—blue roses—and must choose his queen of love and beauty. He walks slowly towards the royals, and lifts the flower towards Arya. He's so incredibly stupid Arya wants to hit him upside the head with the damned roses. Next to her, Lyanna stares at the boy, though he has eyes only for her niece.

"M'lady," he inclines his head towards Arya, who takes the wreath with shaking hands.

"What is your name, ser?" Queen Lyanna asks him.

"I am no ser, Your Grace," he replies self-deprecatingly, "I'm just some tavern girl's bastard."

Lyanna openly stares at him and Rhaegar's eyes narrow at the young man who bears a striking resemblance to the young Lord of Storm's End (the youngest of three brothers, for his eldest brother incited a rebellion and the second-eldest disobeyed his King, while the youngest was too young to do anything, hence his ascension to his position as Lord of the Stormlands).

Gendry bows his head once more and disappears from the arena, and Arya stands, watching him leave. The flowers are crumpled in her hands that she fists at her sides. Aegon sends her a questioning look, and she sits back down before arousing suspicion.

* * *

She finds Gendry during the feast. He is outside of the Great Hall, bottle of ale in hand. Arya itches to touch him, but she instead speaks quietly.

"Will you still be my family?" she asks.

"If m'lady commands it," Gendry bows his head.

She shakes her head, "You have to want it, too."

"I will be your family and anything you ask of me, forever and always," Gendry leans into her ear, whispering. She takes a sharp intake of breath and smiles gently.

"When did you become such a romantic?" she teases.

He smiles at her, the foul mood from days before gone, and takes his leave after pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. She is a fool, but she is a fool in love.

* * *

The next morning maids find Arya's chambers empty, with the blue roses on her perfectly made bed, making it clear she hadn't spent the night in her chambers.

Lyanna Stark sinks onto her niece's bed and gingerly picks up the wreath, running her fingers over the petals. Sansa sits with her, not looking surprised. Aegon is in a rage and Rhaegar and Jon try to calm him down, but the Crown Prince vows to find her, his so-called-beloved. They all know Aegon does not Arya, but he is possessive and he is brash, with a hint of Targaryen madness.

Sansa wraps her arm around her aunt, and Lyanna weeps. She should have known Robert Baratheon would come from the grave to try to steal her back, as if she were a prize, not a person. What she didn't expect is the note Sansa hands her, written in Arya's hurried scrawl.

___Aunt Lyanna, I'm sorry to run away like this, but I have to. I don't want to be a princess or a queen. I love Gendry and won't be sold like some horse. Give Sansa and Jon and Daenerys and Rhaenys my best. Tell Father and Mother I am sorry to have shamed my House. Please don't try to find us. Promise me, Aunt Lya, please. Don't try to find us. Promise me._

* * *

Queen Lyanna speaks to her King and Rhaegar halts the search party. Aegon flies into a rage, demanding that if he cannot marry Arya, he'll have to marry Sansa as he originally wanted. Jon punches him in the jaw at his brother's audacity. Those girls are not to be traded like currency, they are people. Aegon unsheathes his sword and Jon laughs.

"Brother, I will not hesitate to run you through if you dare lay a finger on Sansa," Jon says solemnly, so like a Stark.

Rhaegar tells Aegon he'll marry Margaery Tyrell (the beautiful, clever girl), and Aegon turns on his father. Jon is his favorite, he knows now. He has suspected it for some time, but Rhaegar has just proven his love for Lyanna makes him give Jon everything, despite his insistence he loves his children all the same.

Aegon begrudgingly accepts Margaery as his bride (for she is sweet and charming, and skilled at the game) despite the bad blood between the Martells and Tyrells, or perhaps, in spite of them. Jon and Sansa are wed and happy, and Lyanna keeps her unspoken promise to not find Arya and Gendry. But the relationship between the princes is forever strained and nothing is the same again.

* * *

**The next chapter back tracks to Jon being fostered at Winterfell, and it's already up on tumblr. Please review if you liked it, or didn't like it, even.**_  
_


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for reading/reviewing/following/favoriting/etc. I really appreciate it. This chapter was also posted to my tumblr, but Ive since added to it. It's ended up quite smutty, so WARNING: SMUT AND SEXUAL CONTENT IN THIS CHAPTER. It's not that graphic, but I thought a warning should be included. If it's not your cup of tea, then feel free to stop reading.**

* * *

Jon Targaryen, second in line to the Iron Throne, is sent to be fostered at Winterfell when he is eight. He does not understand why his mother insists on it, but later finds he is of the North and a Stark, by blood though not in name.

Aegon, his older brother, tells him he's being sent away because their father hates him. Jon punches him in the nose. The older boy howls that he only repeated what Uncle Viserys had told him, and Jon clenches his jaw. It is then he hopes Uncle Eddard is kinder than Viserys.

He is. Lord Stark and his lady wife Catelyn are all he could have hoped for in parents. Rhaegar and Lyanna are kind and loving, yes, but Ned and Catelyn are absolutely devoted to their four, later five, children.

Robb is the brother he wishes Aegon would be. Jon and Robb are of an age and spend all their time together. Sansa is two years younger than him and already a little lady, though she tags along with them as much as she can. Arya is nearing four, and Jon is startled at how alike he and Arya are. They have the same long face, the same grey eyes and dark hair. They look like Starks. Robb and Sansa have red hair like their mother and clear blue eyes, and little Bran's eyes are blue and the tuft of hair on his mostly bald head is auburn.

Arya is the sister Jon wishes Rhaenys would be. He loves Rhaenys, but she keeps to herself. She used to spend more time with him when he was younger, until Aegon said something about Jon not truly being her brother.

At the Red Keep, Daenerys was the only true friend Jon had. She was gentle and sweet, but had a temper. She would not be cowed by her older brother, Viserys, or her nephew, who is older than her. Lyanna had once said something about Daenerys being a true dragon, and Jon couldn't help but smile at that.

But while at King's Landing he only had one friend, in Winterfell he is surrounded by friends. A year after his arrival the Ironborn rebel, and after the rebellion is quashed, Theon Greyjoy becomes a ward. He joins Robb and Jon in their lessons and training and games and squabbles.

As they grow older, the girls no longer play with them much. Arya still tries to run away when she can, skipping out on her lessons with the Septa. She's a wild one, and her will reminds him of Daenerys. Sansa listens to her mother though, and attends her lessons. She starts to spend more time with Jeyne Poole, and suddenly she never wants to go anywhere with them.

He meets her in a corridor one day when he is twelve and she is ten and she turns brighter than her hair.

"Sansa," he nods in greeting.

"Jon."

Her voice is high and strained and he raises a brow, much like how Lord Stark would.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

She nods, then twists her hands together nervously, "Jeyne just made me upset is all."

"What did she say?" Jon asks, walking next to her to continue on wherever she was going.

Watery blue eyes look at him, then away.

"She says you're to leave us, and when you do you'll never come back," she shares quietly.

"I am to leave, but not for many years. And when I do, I shall take you with me," Jon says after a moment's thought.

"Truly? You will take me to King's Landing?" she looks at him again, the sombre expression gone from her face.

"If Lord and Lady Stark allow it. Anything you want, cousin, just ask," Jon says lightly. He has missed Sansa. She has a calming effect on them all, and as much as he adores Arya, she's a handful.

Sansa responds by pulling him into a hug, turning pink, and scurrying down the corridor. Jon remains rooted in his spot, unsure of what that jolt he felt was when she had hugged him.

* * *

The royal retinue arrives in time for Jon's thirteenth name day. The King and Queen are accompanied by Aegon and Rhaenys and Daenerys and Viserys. Prince of Dorne, Doran Martell, the Hand of the King and Aegon and Rhaenys's grandfather, has been left in charge of running the kingdom. Rhaegar felt it imperative that after Tywin Lannister's ousting, the Dornish be soothed in some way as well as because of Rhaegar's feelings of guilt and remorse for Elia's death. Had Rhaegar known Elia would be harmed, he would have sent her and the children to Dorne along with Lyanna. He had cared for Elia, once. He loved her as a friend and companion, but never romantically. Still, every time he looks at Rhaenys, who is the perfect mix of both her parents, his heart aches. To soothe his own conscience, he made Doran Hand.

Daenerys and Arya get along well, which is no surprise to Jon. Sansa warms up to Rhaenys and Daenerys both. Robb and Theon try to welcome Aegon and Viserys, but the latter sneers at them while the former seems to find the North quaint and akin to some village.

Aegon does not find Sansa Stark 'quaint'. At barely eleven years old, she is turning into the spitting image of her mother, a truly beautiful lady. Jon notices the way Aegon leers at her, and the way Sansa smiles politely. Her smiles may be polite, but her discomfort is clear from her stiff posture. Jon nudges Robb, who swoops in to save his sister from the advances of the prince.

Jon does not notice the deflated expression Sansa wears on her face. He takes Daenerys for a tour of Winterfell, holding his aunt's hand in his. Robb and Sansa trail behind them, acting as perfect hosts. Sansa thinks Daenerys is the most beautiful girl she has ever seen, and Robb is clearly smitten. She fights a scowl as the girl with silver hair entwines her arm with Jon's. He smiles at her, and in the sunlight his eyes look violet, just like Daenerys's.

They go to the godswood and Daenerys looks around in wonder, letting the snowflakes rest on her face and eyelashes.

"Thank you for bringing me here," she squeezes Jon's hand while looking at the trees.

"I've missed you," he says quietly.

Sansa hears. Sansa freezes.

"And I, you. The Red Keep isn't the same without you," she confides with a small smile.

The royals depart days after Jon's name day. Lyanna attempts to coax him into leaving with them, but he steadfastly refuses. He is of the North. Lyanna understands. Would that she could, she'd disappear into the weirwood just to be home again. She loves Rhaegar, but once in a while she remembers she and he are the reasons her father and Brandon are dead. Why Robert is dead. She did not love Robert, but she did not wish for him to die.

Had she known he would incite a rebellion, she would have had Rhaegar speak to Lord Rickard for her hand in marriage after Elia had consented. (For Elia had consented. She knew she could not bear the 'third head of the dragon' and out of her respect for Rhaegar, whom she loved as a friend though not a husband, she agreed.) It is no use in what ifs, now. Lyanna regrets her son does not wish to return to King's Landing, but Winterfell is more home to him (and her) than the Red Keep will ever be.

His farewell with Daenerys is the longest, and he hugs her close, willing himself not to shed a tear. He is nearly a man grown. He needs to be strong. Dany pulls away from him and stands on her toes. She kisses him on the cheek and disappears into the carriage.

Sansa sees the way Jon smiles and she will never tell anyone of the way she cries herself to sleep that night.

* * *

He finds Sansa crying one day in the stables. He means to fetch his horse to go riding with Robb and Theon when he sees her sitting on a bale of hay, her knees brought to her chest.

"Sansa?" he says quietly.

She jumps from her perch, eyes wide and red and teary. She wipes at her face and wrinkles her nose.

"Yes?" she asks as if she'd not just been crying.

"What's the matter?" Jon asks, stepping forward.

"Am I ugly, Jon?" she asks bluntly. She and Arya share this trait. Sansa usually tries to be more polite, but she is also direct.

"Of course not. Why would you say such a thing?" Jon asks in surprise.

She sits back down on the bale of hay and scoots so Jon can sit next to her.

"Jeyne has been kissed, but I haven't. She said it was one of the boys from town, but she likes Theon. I know she does but she can't ever be Lady Greyjoy," Sansa starts to explain, rambling as only a twelve-year old could.

Jon nods, trying to process it, "Just because she's been kissed and you haven't doesn't mean you're ugly."

"Really?" she asks hopefully.

"Really," he offers her a small smile and pats her on the head like he would to Arya. But Sansa is not Arya, "You're the most beautiful girl I know."

Sansa nearly guffaws. She has seen Daenerys Targaryen, with her long silver-blonde hair and striking violet eyes and perfect curves and lovely smile. She supposes Jon is trying to be kind to her, and for that she is grateful. Are kindly meant lies really so horrible?

"Have you ever been kissed, Jon?" she asks, looking away in embarrassment.

"No," he shakes his head, "I hope it's not because I'm ugly."

"You're not ugly," she determines with a laugh. She looks serious for a moment and smiles, "You look a bit like Father when you're cross."

"So I've heard," Jon looks at the ground covered in hay.

"Jon?" Sansa says, drawing his gaze back to her.

"Hmm?"

She moves closer to him and cups his cheeks with her small, dainty hands, and kisses him softly. It's a quick kiss. Closed-mouthed, dry, and clumsy, but Jon thinks he'll never feel so happy ever again.

Sansa pulls away from him, blushing, and runs away, a smile on her face.

* * *

Somehow they keep up this game, this playing at kissing. It starts out innocently enough, but then things change. In the Great Hall for feasts and dinners Jon can't keep his eyes off of Sansa. He tries to avoid her in case he does something stupid. She in turn thinks he is mad at her and grows distant and quiet. He then confides in her of his worries, and she lets out a tinkling laugh before hugging him. Every once in a while they find each other in a secluded corridor or empty room to kiss, trying to convince themselves they are merely practising for their future wife and husband.

Jon is sixteen and set to return to the capital. He is giving his room a last fond look before he is thrown into the dragon pit once more. Eight years. He has been in Winterfell for eight years, and he does not wish to leave. Aunt Catelyn has seen that his luggage is attended to and she gave him a hug at dinner the night before.

"You have been with us for so long, I feel you are one of my own," she had told him. His heart swelled at that. All he really wants is to be a Stark. Then he had felt guilty, remembering how he and Sansa had played at kissing on and off for two years.

He is about to leave his room when Sansa appears in the doorway. She closes to the door and runs to him, kissing him hard on the mouth. It's nothing like before. He wraps his arms around her and she tangles her hands in dark unruly hair.

"You promised you would take me with you," Sansa whispers into his chest as he hugs her close.

"Aye, I did," he kisses the top of her head, "which is why you, Lady Catelyn, and Bran will be accompanying me."

Sansa backs away slightly, looking up at him.

"I spoke to your father after you told me you wished to see King's Landing. He and your mother agreed," he informs her.

"They have known about this for four years?" Sansa asks.

"Yes, my lady. Do you still wish to come to King's Landing?" Jon asks her, grey eyes meeting blue.

"More than anything," she smiles brightly and kisses him once more.

* * *

King's Landing is everything Sansa had hoped it to be and more. Her mother and Bran leave after three months in the capital, for Rickon is still so young and needs his mother back.

But still, she likes the capital. Aunt Lyanna is a peculiar lady and even more peculiar queen. She trains with the men and wears breeches whenever she pleases and sometimes Sansa thinks that Aunt Lya must have been a lot like Arya. The King is kind to her, if a bit distant, but his love for his Queen and his children and his siblings is clear. Viserys ignores her for the most part, but Rhaenys is more welcoming, and Daenerys is the most welcoming of all. Sansa is wary of Jon's aunt at first. She remembers her childhood jealousy and realizes that no, jealousy does not fade over time.

Aegon appears by her side constantly, and she is initially flattered by the attention, but it gnaws at her patience. While Daenerys and Jon go to the training yard or their lessons or even just for walks in the gardens, Aegon seeks her out. She tries to seek Jon out, and tag along with him and Daenerys, if only to get away from Aegon. But she cannot stand to see Jon and Daenerys together, laughing and exchanging japes and _he looks at Dany the way she wishes he would look at her._

So Sansa distances herself once more. Jon raises a brow whenever she excuses herself from the room, and then he begins to avoid her altogether. She has been in the Red Keep for a year and he's not touched her since leaving Winterfell.

One night she steals into his chambers well into the night, silently congratulating herself for being just as stealthy as Arya.

She doesn't know what she expected to see. Maybe Daenerys curled up beside him, but he's all alone. She creeps closer to his bed and lightly sits herself down. She sheds the dressing gown, leaving her in a light blue chemise that reaches her ankles. The neckline is low, and the fabric stretches taut across pert breasts. The laces just under her bust hold the bodice together, and she pulls at it self-consciously. She lies down and Jon stirs at the weight. He turns, eyes still closed, and wraps his arms around her waist. Sansa stops breathing for a moment, and he says her name.

"_Sansa,"_ he murmurs.

She cranes her neck to look at him and his eyes are still closed and he cannot possibly know she is there. She turns in his arms and touches his stubbly cheek hesitantly. She then peppers light, feathery kisses on his forehead and eyes and mouth and jaw. His eyes open slowly and he smiles momentarily. In an instant his smile disappears and he nearly rolls off of the bed in shock.

Sansa stifles a giggle and leans over to see him on the ground. His shirt is missing and so are his breeches, and he scrambles around for the blanket to cover himself. _Oh_. Sansa lurches back onto the bed, thanking the gods he cannot see her flustered expression.

"What are you doing here?" he hisses, standing up.

"Do you no longer want me, my lord?" Sansa asks, staring directly into his eyes.

His brow furrows, "Why would you ask such a thing?"

"Daenerys," Sansa says simply.

"She is my aunt," Jon looks even more confused now.

_He knows nothing_, Sansa thinks.

"And I am your cousin." The malice in her voice startles him.

"I thought…I thought you wished for Aegon to court you. You have been spending more time with him. I thought you wanted to be Queen," Jon says slowly.

Sansa leaps from the bed and marches over to him. She pushes his shoulders back, glaring. She has only been spending more time with him because she felt Jon was slighting her. She thought he didn't want her anymore.

"You know nothing, Jon."

Her voice is icy and sharp. Before she can push him again he catches each wrist with his hands and brings a hand to his lips. Sansa's eyes widen and Jon steps closer to her. He lets go of her hands and instead holds onto her chin.

"You are my cousin. My sweet Sansa," Jon's voice is low and full of remorse.

"You're a Targaryen, are you not?" Sansa asks, knowing full well of the Targaryens incestuous lineage. For gods' sakes, Rhaella and Aerys were siblings. Surely Jon couldn't be so disgusted by the thought of his cousin.

"It's not the same. What if I were your brother?" Jon asks, brushing his thumb over her cheek.

"But you're not my brother. Please, Jon," her voice is small and her eyes are beginning to water.

His eyes wander over her face, down her slim neck and shoulders, to her breasts that are spilling over the bodice of her smallclothes, to her waist and her hips so beautifully outlined by the thin, clingy fabric.

He tilts her chin up and captures her lips with his and for once he is greedy. He cups her face with his hands and pushes her onto his bed and the scent of her hair and her skin (lavender and lemon, or something citrusy) fills his nose and he kisses her harder and deeper. Long fingernails claw at his naked back and he moves his hands from her face to her exposed collarbones. His thumbs ghost over her breasts and her nipples harden at his touch, straining against the thin cloth. He kneads and touches and pinches her gently, eliciting a moan. He pulls at the laces of her bodice, baring her pert breasts to him. He marvels at the sight of perfectly round breasts and dimpled, rose coloured nipples.

Jon presses kisses to her neck and there will undoubtedly be a mark on her in the morning. He moves his mouth down her body and engulfs a breast in his mouth while his hand works at tweaking and rubbing her other. Sansa's chest is heaving at this point and her hands bury in Jon's mess of curls. She closes her eyes and moans at the suction and small nips against her tender flesh. His tongue flicks against her pink, hardened nipple. Under his hand, her other nub pebbles. He lowers his other hand to her waist and to her legs. He pushes her legs apart and bunches her chemise up around her hips and Sansa bites his shoulder in order to stifle her moans.

"Jon," she sounds breathy and he falls to his knees in front of her. He pries her knees apart further and she moves to the edge of the bed, half lying down and unsure of what exactly she is supposed to do. He gently pushes her lips apart and puts a finger in her slowly. Sansa gasps and scrunches her eyes shut at the intrusion. He moves his finger in and out slowly, and her body shakes. He slips a second finger inside of her and she clenches around him, rocking her hips back and forth.

Jon kisses her on the mouth once more, all the while twisting his fingers inside of her. She's wet around him and her red curls are damp. He kisses down her neck and chest again, licking the breast he had ignored before. Her hands grip his hair tighter and he smiles against her. He continues his journey down her body, her bodice open to expose her swelling chest and her skirt hiked up around her waist.

He bends his head down and tastes her whilst pumping his fingers in and out and she bites her tongue so hard she draws blood. He laps at her, kissing and licking and sucking down her sweet wetness. She's red and swollen and her entire body is vibrating. Sansa breathes deeply, pulling at Jon's hair. She lifts her hips up and Jon's tongue darts deeper inside of her, his nose brushing against her sex. She lifts her legs up in the air, settling them over Jon's shoulders. Her hands clutch at the bed desperately while his tongue and fingers lunge in and out of her. She moves at the rhythm Jon has set, urging him to go deeper. The palm of his hand massages against her base and a third finger goes inside of her, causing her to cry out so loudly she's sure the criminals in the dungeons can hear. She can't hold herself any longer and she vaguely registers liquid running down her thighs and Jon finally lifting his head up.

"Jon," she murmurs, eyes glazed, a serene smile on her face.

He sits on the bed next to her and her gaze drifts to his manhood and she blushes. Without thinking, she reaches out to touch it, grabbing a hold of it through dark curls.

"Sansa," Jon growls.

She rubs her soft hand against his length, looking at it curiously. She doesn't know what it's supposed to look like, but it seems rather large. Her thumb and forefinger don't even meet when she wraps her hand around him. That is supposed to go inside of her, isn't it? She rubs her hand against him, thin fingers tickling him.

"Hmm," she makes a small sound and slides onto the floor, on her knees like Jon had just been.

"You don't have to do this," he says.

"I want to," she replies with a small smile.

Uncertainly, she brings her mouth to him and flicks her tongue against him tentatively. Jon rests his hands on her shoulders, his grip firm on her. She lifts his shaft up with one hand and licks him more assuredly. His nails dig into her bony shoulders and she sends him a wicked smile.

With her eyes trained on his, she bobs her head down, her lips enveloping around his length. Her tongue lashes out, licking and sucking and biting ever so gently. Her hand cups his balls and Jon throws his head back, eyes rolling into the back of his head. He bucks his hips forward, and Sansa takes more of him into her mouth. She slides her lips up and down his rigid length and releases him from her mouth in order to swirl her tongue around his tip. She circles him with her tongue, left and right, up and down. She licks him from base to tip, once, twice, three times, her tongue darting around a different area each time. Sansa hollows her cheeks, sucking on his tip before slowly making her way up his shaft. She can't fit the entirety of him in her mouth and she's not sure if she's supposed to. She leans her head back as if to make room, and Jon thrusts forward. She licks him as he inches ahead in her mouth, and Jon grunts her name.

Sansa Stark's mouth is around his cock. His sweet, sweet Sansa is sucking on him, minutes after he lapped at her juices. This is surely a dream, for this scenario has played out in his mind countless times before.

He feels himself reach his peak, and he leans his head down onto Sansa's shoulder.

"Sansa, I'm nearly finished," he closes his eyes and Sansa quickens her movements. His tip hits the back of her throat and she slides her mouth back down his length and instead kisses and licks him a few times. He spills his seed on her and he's horrified she'll be disgusted by him.

Sansa lets go of his now deflating manhood and wipes at her chest and soiled chemise.

"Did I do it right?" she asks, still on her knees.

"Very right," Jon croaks.

Sansa seems pleased with herself and she stands. Jon smiles at her, as if he can't believe she's real, and Sansa flushes. She's already pink and glistening with sweat from her exertion and arousal, so blushing doesn't add much colour to her cheeks. She pulls her smallclothes down, stepping out of them, leaving her as naked as Jon. She hesitantly sits on his lap and wraps her arms around his neck. He buries his head in the valley between her breasts, his hand absentmindedly stroking her back.

"Will you take me, Jon? As a man takes his wife?" she asks quietly.

"I cannot dishonour you," he starts, and Sansa sighs.

"And this wasn't dishonouring me?" she asks.

"I'm afraid, Sansa," Jon admits, looking up into her blue eyes, "I'm afraid Aegon will get his way and will marry you. I'm afraid I'll never get to touch you, hold you, or even look at you ever again. I'm afraid that if you are no longer a maid and he marries you, he will hurt you."

His voice is low and he looks ill at the thought of his brother even touching Sansa.

She presses her forehead against his, "I will never marry him."

She sounds so sure, Jon holds onto the small sliver of hope he has. Her eyes begin to close and he knows she is tired, her body having gone through something she'd never experienced. He'd never experienced it, either. Theon had taken him to one of the brothels in Winter Town once, but he could not go through with it. Up until now, he and Sansa had only touched each other with clothing as barriers.

Jon stands, lifting Sansa up, and places her carefully on the bed. He slides in next to her and pulls the heavy blankets over them.

They lie awake in the early morning hours, facing each other. Jon thinks she's the loveliest thing he's ever seen. His eyes trace over her body, repeatedly, for he tries to remember every curve and crevice and expanse of smooth skin. He will always remember her like this, with her hair dishevelled and in loose waves, tumbling down her back. She does much the same, taking in his muscles and abdomen and strong, muscular legs.

"Are you going to ignore me again?" Sansa asks quietly. Her body is still buzzing and she does not know how Jon knew how to use his tongue like that, but she does not ask.

"No," he answers firmly, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

* * *

Sansa becomes skilled at sneaking out of her chambers in the middle of the night. She also becomes skilled at stifling her moans. She remains a maid, for Jon does not take her as a husband takes his wife. He is afraid she will be married off. She is afraid, too, despite her hopes that Queen Lyanna will not allow her to be sent away or wed to Aegon. She wants Jon to steal her, to take her so no other man can.

Jon does not take her as a man takes his wife, but he does do that marvellous thing with his tongue, repeatedly. And she takes him into her mouth and swallows his seed after learning that no, she cannot quicken with child that way. She would not mind carrying Jon's child, but as long as the threat of marriage to Aegon looms over her head she will not risk it.

She is near sixteen and the time for her to wed draws nearer with each year she ages. It is a wonder Jon is not yet betrothed at seventeen, then again, Aegon remains unwed and tradition dictates he marry first. At nineteen, Aegon does not appear to be interested in anyone. Anyone, save Sansa.

She does not miss the way Aegon glares at Jon or makes off-handed rude remarks about Lyanna. Sansa's hands ball up into fists and she curtly reminds Aegon that Lyanna is his Queen and should be addressed with respect.

Aegon regards her curiously, surprised at her tenacity. Daenerys hides a smile at that, while Jon merely looks at Sansa with pride and adoration. Sansa is no dainty flower. Behind her beauty there is pure steel, but only Jon can seem to see that.

Aunt Lya pulls Sansa aside one day and tells her that Aegon has gone to Rhaegar to speak of asking for her hand.

Sansa refuses, the panic settling into her heart. She is nearing seventeen now, and as discreet as she and Jon are, she fears they have been found out. There are eyes and ears everywhere in the Red Keep and King's Landing, Lord Varys has his little spiders in every corner. Sansa sports red marks on her neck some days, and leaves her hair loose and flowing to cover them up. Other times she wears dresses with high necklines. Eventually she becomes paranoid and tells Jon only to leave his mark on her where no one can see, and he gladly obliges.

Still, they must be careful. There's only so much kissing and groping one can do in secluded studies before people start to notice. Lady Olena Tyrell and her granddaughter Margaery have also recently arrived in King's Landing, and as charming as Margaery is, Sansa senses that the girl is up to something, what with her little spiders of her own, in the form of her cousins.

"Please, no," Sansa clutches Lyanna's hands in terror. Aegon can be pleasant when he wants, but there is too much of the Mad King and of Viserys in him.

Lyanna tells her she will speak to Rhaegar. Rhaegar suggests every other eligible girl of age. Margaery Tyrell, Roslin Frey, Myrcella Martell (Cersei Lannister's and the Red Viper's daughter, Aegon's own cousin on Elia's side), anyone but Sansa.

"I want a Stark," Aegon says, cool violet eyes glaring into his father's warmer purple eyes.

Sansa later realizes the price for her happiness has been her only sister, and breaks down crying in Jon's arms. Jon wishes he could do something, but the matter is settled. He can only hope to protect Arya from Aegon's moods.

* * *

Arya Stark screams at the news her parents give her and rips the letter in half. She writes to Sansa and Jon, begging them to do something, all the while the maids pack her belongings.

She does not hug her parents goodbye. She hugs Robb and his new wife, Dacey of House Mormont. She hugs Bran, who tells her to be brave and cryptically says something about a bull. She hugs Rickon. She even would have hugged Theon, but he has returned to Iron Islands as his mother withers away from illness. She does not hug her parents.

"Arya, we have no choice," Ned tries.

Arya stares past her father and mother, lips pursed.

"I would sooner die than marry him," she says, then turns sharply to face her parents, "blood will be on your hands. Either mine or his."

She steps into the carriage and refuses to look out the window to see her home one last time. She is being torn away from all that she loves, just because of some stupid prince. She's surprised he doesn't want Sansa. Aegon had barely looked at her all those years ago at Winterfell. She feels ill upon coming to the realization that Aegon probably wants to emulate his father as much as possible. And who looks most like Lyanna Stark? Arya, that's who.

* * *

**Next: Arya arrives in King's Landing and meets Gendry, while Sansa and Jon try to figure out how to deal with Aegon's pestering.  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for reading and reviewing, I really appreciate it. WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: Smut (Sansa and Jon). Also, TRIGGER WARNING FOR ABUSE (Aegon). It's not graphic, but it's there, with a warning in the chapter if you'd rather not read it.  
**

* * *

Arya hates King's Landing. It is hot and dry and she wants the comfort of Winterfell and her furs and the snow back.

Upon her arrival to the capital, her betrothed greets her. His violet gaze is scrutinizing, as if he is trying to find her flaws, and she does not let herself flinch. She hugs her aunt and Jon and Sansa. Gods, she has missed Sansa. They were never very close in their younger years, but near three years of separation has made Arya wistful. She hugs Jon longest of all. He may be their cousin but to Arya he is just as much her brother as Robb or Bran or Rickon. He ruffles her hair and calls her wolf-girl, and Sansa hides a smile, trying to look serious instead.

With a start, Arya finds Sansa and Jon look like Mother and Father, and the guilt settles into her stomach for not giving them a proper farewell.

Aegon takes her arm and his touch is cold. He leads her past the castle gates and indoors, Aunt Lya and Jon and Sansa trailing behind them. Arya turns to look at her sister and cousin and sees them smiling, looking at the ground. Strange, she thinks, that they are so close now when Sansa deemed playing with them childish all those years ago.

In the entrance hall she meets King Rhaegar and Princess Rhaenys and Lady Daenerys and Lord Viserys. She remembers them, and remembers she likes Daenerys most of all.

She greets them, trying to remember her courtesies. Sansa quickly takes her to her chambers and Arya is grateful.

Once Sansa closes the door behind them, her smile drops and her shoulders slump.

"I am so sorry, Arya. I tried to convince Aegon and King Rhaegar you weren't a good match. Jon did, too," she begins to apologise and Arya shakes her head. Arya takes her sister's hand, surprising them both.

"I will not marry him. Somehow, some way, I will get out of this," Arya says evenly.

"Jon and I will help however we can," Sansa tries to smile.

Arya squeezes her hands and wonders when Jon and Sansa became _Jon and Sansa_.

* * *

Aegon tries to speak to her, in an attempt to get to know her, or some such nonsense. She tries to make her face impassive as not to offend him or enrage him. She sees his temper, his tight grip on Rhaenys's arm and harsh whispers when he thinks Rhaegar isn't looking. Viserys is the same, but they are both cowed by Daenerys. Somehow the small woman frightens him. Arya has heard Viserys scream at Rhaenys about 'awakening the dragon' but Viserys is no dragon. Daenerys, though, Daenerys is every bit a dragon as Visenya or the first Rhaenys must have been.

They are walking through the gardens, and Aegon is explaining something about the flowers (though he glances at Sansa and Jon who are yards away, often) when a loud slap comes from another corner.

They look over and see Daenerys clutching her cheek and Viserys turning red. She throws her arm back and backhands Viserys so hard that there's a gross crack, and it is so loud that Jon and Sansa who had been sitting at a bench at the other end of the gardens come running.

"The next time you lay a hand on me will be the last time you have hands," Daenerys is fuming, her cheeks red and her eyes wild.

Arya grins. Viserys has awoken the dragon. He staggers away and Jon places a hand on his aunt's shoulder in an attempt to calm her. She shrugs him off and mumbles that she's fine. Aegon looks between his aunt and uncle, then frowns.

"He is your brother, you cannot strike him," he says stupidly.

"He struck me first, nephew. Do not serve what you cannot handle being served back," Daenerys glares and Viserys spits blood out from his mouth.

"Father will hear about this," Aegon warns, moving to help a traumatized Viserys.

"Good," Dany walks away from the assembled group with her chin up.

* * *

Arya tries not to punch Aegon in the face, but cannot contain herself any longer when he insults Jon right in front of her. A bastard prince from a whore of a mother, he says.

Arya curls her hands into fists and slams her fist into Aegon's nose without a moment's hesitation. Aegon's head is knocked back and he holds his nose.

"Take it back," she snarls.

"I apologize, my lady," Aegon says meekly. He and Viserys aren't so different, Arya thinks. Viserys is crueller, or wants to be, but he is also a coward.

"I am no lady," she says, walking away from her betrothed. Sometimes she thinks the wildlings had the right of it, what with stealing themselves wives and husbands. And if the woman didn't want to be stolen, she would slice the man's throat. Yes, Arya thinks, the wildings have it right.

* * *

At dinner that night no one says anything about Aegon's nose. Rhaenys had tended to her brother's injury earlier and now it is bruised.

Jon sends Arya a look, a mix of 'you shouldn't have done that' and 'thank you'. Sansa sits next to Arya and squeezes her hand under the table while Dany smiles pleasantly, though she is undoubtedly sniggering on the inside.

"I wish to travel across the Narrow Sea," she announces suddenly.

Her eldest brother stares at her, "What's brought this on?"

"I am nearing twenty now, and have seen so little of the world. I wish to travel," Daenerys says resolutely, her decision already made.

"You'll miss my wedding," Aegon frowns.

Arya tries not to roll her eyes.

"I shall depart after you are wed, dear nephew," she promises, and the matter is settled.

* * *

Arya stomps into the forge, looking around. She heads to the counter and taps it impatiently. Needle is sheathed, hidden away next to her breeches. She needs to get it lengthened and made heavier since she clearly is not the same size as she was at the age of ten.

She is taken aback by the hulking man who emerges from the where she assumes the actual smithy is, and he looks at her with a scrutinizing gaze. He looks to be Jon's age, if not older. He's tall and incredibly muscular and his dark hair is matted against his forehead, nearly covering startlingly blue eyes. He's not wearing a shirt and Arya feels her neck flush, though she tells herself it's merely because of the heat from the forge.

"What can I help you with?" he asks in a gruff voice.

She whips out Needle and sets in on the counter. He looks at it appraisingly, picking it up.

"This is fine steel," he says appreciatively.

"Only the best from Winterfell," Arya can't help but gloat.

The smith stops turning the sword over in his hands.

"You're the Prince's cousin, then?" he asks.

Arya looks confused, and he elaborates, "I made him some armor once. He mentioned he has a lot of cousins in Winterfell. Wouldn't shut up about you lot, actually."

She nods in understanding now, "Can you make it heavier and longer. It's not quite comfortable to fight with."

"Sure. Come back in two weeks," the smith says.

He doesn't say anything about a girl fighting, or anything about her being a highborn girl wearing breeches, nor does he so much as glance at her, and Arya is surprised.

"Is there any chance you could get it done faster?" Arya asks, biting her lip.

"I have other commissions to work on. First come, first serve. Do you have someone to run through any time soon?" he asks with a slight grin.

She snorts, "If I say yes will it be done sooner?"

He levels a look at her and she bites her lip again, her eyes widening. She has learned _some_ feminine wiles over the years, why not put them to use?

"You can come by tomorrow afternoon and I'll see what I can do," he concedes.

"Thank you," she says with a grin, and moves towards the entrance.

"Any time, m'lady," he bows his head and she doesn't know if he's teasing her.

She scrunches up her nose and makes to leave when she catches sight of a helm in the shape of a bull.

"What's that?" she asks, standing on her toes to see it on the shelf.

"Not for sale," he says, stepping out from around the counter. He brushes past her and takes the helmet from the shelf, bringing it back behind the counter with him.

"But what is it?" she pries.

"A bull. It's one of the first things I made," he says with a shrug, "and it's not for sale."

"I don't want your stupid bull helm anyway," she says breezily, "I'll be back tomorrow."

"Looking forward to it," the smith deadpans, and Arya leaves.

She is in the godswood of the Red Keep, just thinking, when she realizes she does not know the smith's name.

* * *

After a light lunch and some dessert taken in Daenerys's chambers with Sansa, Arya scurries away, taking secluded corridors and hidden passageways out. Jon and Daenerys had showed her the path, and Sansa is still miffed that they never thought to show her when she had first arrived in King's Landing.

Arya enters the forge and the smith isn't there. An older man emerges from the back at the noise and gives her an once-over, as if he's unsure if Arya's a lady or some street urchin.

Before she can say anything there's a hand on her shoulder and she nearly yelps. It's the smith, this time he's wearing a tunic as well as breeches. _How unfortunate_, some part of her mind drawls.

"She's here about a sword," the smith informs the man who must be his employer. The older man nods and the smith leads her back outside.

"My sword, is it ready?" she asks, blinking in the blinding sun.

"I've not started yet," he says, walking towards the back of the building.

Arya scrunches her nose up. He leads her to a small space in the yard, and there Arya sees Needle.

"I need to melt it down. It'll be the same metal, don't worry," he says.

Arya nods and watches as a fire burns under a pot. The smith holds a metal rod on the pot and it glows red. He places Needle in the pot and Arya rushes forward.

"Wait," she says.

He looks at her with a raised brow and she bites her lip and shakes her head.

"Never mind. It's silly," she mumbles.

He nods and she watches Needle melt away into molten steel, the smith stirring it with some special rod.

"What's your name?" she asks while the metal melts.

"Gendry," he answers. He's not much of a talker, this one.

"I'm Arya," she offers in an attempt at being polite.

"I know who you are, m'lady," Gendry says.

"Well, Gendry," the name rolls off her tongue easily and she finds she likes it, "when will my sword be ready?"

"Come back in a few days. It should be done by then if Tohbo doesn't have me do too much else," he answers after a moment's concentration.

Arya nods once more and decides she's seen enough for the day.

* * *

She finds herself there the next day. She's wearing a stupid dress because Margaery Tyrell and her tittering cousins had been with them the entire day.

She leans against the barrier blocking her access to the back room

Gendry sees her and raises a brow, walking towards the main room, "Don't teach you the meaning of 'a few days' up North?"

Arya rolls her eyes and snorts.

"Don't they teach you to be nice to your customers?" Arya asks.

He laughs and it's a low rumble and probably the best sound Arya has ever heard. Her heart rises from her chest into her throat and her palms are suddenly itchy. She's acting like Sansa and she wishes she could slap herself. He stops laughing and looks at her curiously.

"What are you wearing?" he asks, brow furrowed.

"A dress. Would you like for me to contact the seamstress for you?" Arya quips.

Gendry laughs once more and Arya looks down, hiding a smile.

"So there's no chance Needle's ready?" Arya asks.

"'Fraid not, m'lday," he answers.

She bristles at the title and mutters that he's stupid and she should've gone elsewhere.

"If there's nothing else, I need to get to work," Gendry moves his hand behind him.

Arya nods, ignoring the feeling of disappointment that washes over her. The last thing she wants is to be surrounded by the gaggle of Tyrells once more. Or be ambushed by Aegon, who has been more aggressive of late in his attempts at courting. She thinks it must have something to do with Sansa's constant avoidance of him.

As if he notes her downswing in mood, Gendry purses his lips, "Come on, then. There's this shield I'm working on if you want to see it."

She smiles brightly and follows him into the scorching hot room, so hot it's as if dragons had heated it themselves.

Arya settles herself on a wooden stool and watches as Gendry sets to work. She's transfixed by his movements and his skill and she doesn't know how much time has passed but by the end of it all he's covered in soot, she smells like burnt metal, and the sun has already set.

She scampers down the street, holding her skirts in her hand so she can be quicker. Gendry watches her leave and chuckles. She's a strange one, that Arya Stark.

* * *

Quiet as a shadow, swift as a deer. She tries to make as little noise as possible, creeping towards her chambers. She stops in front of Sansa's door, which is slightly ajar. She hears muffled voices and sighs. Her curiosity gets the better of her and she slowly opens the door to peer inside.

Jon is on his knees and Sansa's skirts are pushed up around her knees, her bodice unlaced, and Arya's not quite sure what's happening but she knows it's not for her eyes to see. She backs away quickly and runs to her own room. Once inside, she lets out a laugh. Now she knows why Aegon is stuck with her. If she has to put up with the silver prince for her sister's happiness, so be it. She will never tell a soul.

* * *

Day after day, she finds herself in the forge. Needle is still not ready. She learns to bring food with her. Honey cakes, lemon cakes, apples, anything. She munches on food whilst Gendry works on some shield or lance or what have you, and he occasionally swipes a cake from her hands. She catches him looking at her sometimes, and she pretends not to notice. She looks at him, too. It's hard not to look at him, but she tries to convince herself she feels nothing but friendship for him. Arya thinks that she just may have made a friend outside of the Red Keep.

Much too soon, Needle is ready. He hands it to her and she takes it gingerly. It's light in her hands, but far weightier than before. The grip is perfectly sized for her hand, and the balance is impeccable. She points the sword in the air and thrusts it forward. Yes, this'll do.

"Thank you," she says sincerely, sheathing the newer sword.

"All in a day's work, m'lady," Gendry smiles crookedly.

"More like a fortnight's," Arya rolls her eyes, "I'll bring you the coin tomorrow."

"No need," he waves it away, "it was a gift from your cousin, yes? It's still a gift, you don't need to pay."

"I can't—" she starts.

He shushes her by clicking his tongue.

"Your company was payment enough," he grins.

"I barely said a word," she points out.

He shrugs, "Sometimes it's just nice to have someone there, even if they're not talking."

Arya smiles and she thanks Gendry again before running off.

Gendry does not expect to see Arya ever again, but she's as unpredictable as a storm. Imagine his surprise when she comes sauntering into the forge the very next day, armful of treats from the royal kitchens.

* * *

Sansa is not blind. She sees that her sister is less combative than usual, and that she disappears after lunch. She has her suspicions, but keeps them to herself. Let her have her small moments of happiness, whatever those moments may entail. The poor girl is set to be miserable the rest of her life, anyway.

She places the book she had been reading back on the shelf and is startled when she turns around to see Aegon leering at her.

"My lord," she inclines her head.

"Sansa, I've been looking for you," Aegon says with a small smile.

"Oh," she says.

She knows there is a council meeting at that very moment. Jon is there, so why isn't Aegon?

"Would you care to join me for a walk?" he asks.

Before she can answer, his hand finds its way onto her arm and she is being led to a secluded corner of the library.

"A walk to find a book, my lord?" Sansa asks.

**[Warning]**

He laughs, but it is a hollow one. His grip on her arm tightens and her brows furrow. Her breath catches in her throat when he leans into her, kissing her neck. Sansa eyes widen and she attempts to push him away. He's surprisingly strong for someone so lean and just as she is about to call for help he presses his mouth onto hers. She stills and does not move. Perhaps it is best if she lets him kiss her so he can be on his way. He raises her arms up above her head, pinning them against the books. One hand holds both her wrists and his other hand covers her mouth.

"You did not wish to be my Queen, but you forgot that Kings have mistresses. You also forgot that I can marry Arya and then marry you. I have loved you from afar for years and you have refused me for too long," he says in a low voice. He moves his hand from her mouth to her jaw, and his fingers glide over the neckline of her dress, then over the fabric. He pinches at her painfully, and Sansa hisses in response.

He lets go of her arms and pushes her hair behind her neck, eying the hickey Jon has left her.

"Has my brother gotten to you first?" his eyes shine with rage, "so the whispers are true. He brought himself a whore from the North. Are all you Stark women whores? If you can spread your legs for him, you can spread them for me, too. I'd be more than happy to take your maidenhead. I'm sure your cunt is warm and inviting," he leers as he continues to grope her.

Sansa says nothing, and he smirks, hands still on her.

"You forgot that a king can do as he pleases," Aegon says in a low voice.

"You are not king yet," Sansa points out, trying to sound strong.

Angered, he tugs at her hair forcefully.

"Please, Aegon, stop, please," Sansa says in a high voice, "someone can find us here."

Aegon is gentler now, "Shh, Lady Sansa. No one will dare say anything once I've made you mine. But you're right. We'll continue this another time."

He lets her go and pats her on the cheek.

He leaves her as if nothing has happened and Sansa swallows the lump in her throat and tears spring to her eyes.

**[/Warning]**

* * *

Jon sees Aegon in the corridor, and without a word he grabs his brother by his shirt and slams him against the wall. What love he once harbored for his older brother is now gone, rage being the only thing he feels towards him.

"Touch her again, and I won't just tell Father. All of Westeros will know what a pervert you are, and you'll be missing a head," Jon threatens, and for once, Aegon looks scared.

* * *

Jon paces up and down the length of her room. She sits at her writing table and bites her lip.

"He won't touch me again, Jon. He was just being stupid," Sansa says, feeling disgusted with herself. She had already vomited in a basin, and she refused dinner.

Jon walks towards her and falls to his knees.

"I should have been with you. This shouldn't have happened. I expect this sort of thing from Viserys, but not Aegon," Jon wraps his arms around her waist and she wraps her arms around his shoulders. She presses her cheek to his head and strokes his hair.

"Viserys has done something like this?" she asks quietly.

"He tried with Dany, but she fought back and challenged him to a duel with live steel. He refused and she said if he tries it again, she'd gut him. He slapped her that time in the garden because she said she wasn't going to be his wife," Jon explains, and Sansa smiles sadly, "and he's hurt Rhaenys. I've seen the bruises on her arms."

"And King Rhaegar does nothing?" Sansa asks.

"He's Viserys's brother, not his father," Jon states with a shake of his head, "He is blind to his younger brother's actions. He pities him because he lost a mother and a father so young, so he grew up coddled. I hope Dany takes Rhaenys with her."

"As do I," Sansa agrees.

That night Jon sleeps in Sansa's bed, his arms wrapped around her protectively. When she wakes Jon is holding onto her tightly, eyes still closed. She presses a kiss to his mouth and he opens his eyes.

"Good morning," she lifts her head off the pillow and smiles at him, though it is still dark out.

"Gods, you're beautiful," Jon mumbles, and she smiles wider.

She moves on top of him and kisses him deeply.

"Sansa," he murmurs into her hair when she kisses his neck.

"When are you going to steal me?" she asks quietly, "please, Jon, bed me so Aegon will leave me alone, please." She would be labelled a whore. No one else would want her. Not Aegon or anyone else. Just Jon. Only Jon.

Jon buries his hands in her tangled red hair and nods.

"Okay, okay," he promises and she smiles in relief.

They continue kissing, with Sansa running her hands across Jon's sculpted chest, her fingers digging into his skin. Jon rolls over so that he is above Sansa. He slips a finger inside of her, beneath her shift, and she wriggles her hips. A second finger joins the first while Sansa pulls her bodice down, smallclothes pooled around her waist. Soon his mouth is engulfed around her swollen, pink tip while his hand rubs her other breast. He rakes his mouth down to her navel before stopping between her thighs. He moves his fingers from inside of her and she lets out a whimper. He laughs softly and opens her lips, kissing her and putting two, then three, fingers in her core. His tongue follows the familiar path and Sansa's holds onto the bed post because she can't do much of anything else.

Soon light streams in from the window signalling that it is near dawn. Jon pulls off his smallclothes, then slides Sansa's chemise down her legs, tossing it away. He positions himself at her centre and Sansa takes a deep breath.

"Are you sure?" he asks gently.

She nods vigorously and plants her legs on either side of him, spreading herself. Jon can't take his eyes of her. She's naked and willing, pink lips swelling and slick. His tip barely touches her and she shivers. Slowly, he guides himself in and Sansa writhes against the featherbed. The intrusion does not hurt, but it is a strange sensation. It's completely different from his fingers or mouth. He pushes forward more and now it hurts and she lets out a yelp. He stays like that for a few moments, letting her get used to his length and girth. She lifts her hips up and Jon places his hands on her legs for balance. He moves out of her and thrusts in swiftly. She cries out and then bites her tongue. Does she want the entire Red Keep to know Jon Targaryen is taking her maidenhead? She mulls it over and moans loudly, moving her hips in time with his.

She does, in fact, want the entire Red Keep to know.

"Gods, Sansa," Jon grits his teeth.

She lifts her hips up and Jon grabs her legs, lifting them into the air. He slides closer to her, plunging as deep as he can. Her toes push against his shoulders as she pushes herself back and forth. He moves quicker now, unable go any slower. She's wet around him and her walls are taught and tight. He takes long, fast strokes, and Sansa groans and sighs.

"Jon, Jon please," she begs and he quickens even more, long thrusts turning into shorter, more fervent ones.

"Gods, yes," Sansa clenches around him, making a tighter fit. Jon lets out a low growl and he slides out of her quickly before ramming into her brutally, in and out, in and out, repeatedly hitting her walls.

Sansa lets out something between a scream and a moan. He leans over her, still plunging into her, and kisses her softly. She kisses back eagerly, her tongue running over his.

"Sansa," he murmurs and she kisses him again. She places her hands on the back of his head, keeping him there.

She moans against his mouth and Jon takes the opportunity to kiss her neck. Her body spasms and Jon spills his seed in her.

She runs her hand through his hair and Jon moves to remove himself from inside of her.

"No," she mumbles deliriously, "don't leave."

Jon's still half-hard and he does as he's bid. He kisses the tops of her breasts, licking his way down to her erect, rosy tips. Sansa's eyes flutter to a close as Jon's mouth works at a mound, his hand pinching and tickling the other.

She moves her hips, grinding against him and Jon grunts. He feels himself harden inside of her and Sansa makes a satisfied mewling sound.

Sansa stretches her legs and lifts her hips up to arch her back. Jon begins to move inside of her again, steadily thrusting before increasing the tempo. He hits her walls again and Sansa lifts her hips up higher, hooking her legs around his head instead of resting her feet on his shoulders. Jon's fingers tickle her legs before his hands cup her bum, squeezing with each thrust. His mouth is still on her protruding nipple, licking and taking the engorged tip in his teeth. In this position he's able to sink his length in deeper still, and Sansa's breathless panting only spurs him to ram into her faster.

She's on sensory overload and she doesn't know what to focus on. With every thrust she moans, with every squeeze she sighs, and with every lick she shivers. Without being able to process anything, she's screaming Jon's name and there's liquid flowing down her thighs and Jon spills what he has left inside of her once more.

All she can hear are Jon's consistent grunts of _Sansa, Sansa, Sansa_.

He removes himself from inside her and she whimpers, bringing her legs down and gods she's sore. He moves up to her, lying down next to her. He kisses her sweetly and she smiles against his lips. They break the kiss and Sansa nuzzles her head into the crook of Jon's neck. She wishes to stay like this forever. Yet she knows it is morning and one of her maids will come to dress her soon. The servants of the Red Keep are surely awake by now and heard her and Jon's deflowering. There is a red stain on her mattress but she hardly cares about that now.

They are both covered in a sheen of sweat, exhausted but happy. Sansa places her hand on her stomach.

"There could be a babe quickening in my belly right now," she says softly.

Jon looks dazed and smiles at the thought. A little girl who looked like Sansa, with her hair and his eyes. Or a little boy. His smile fades, "Do you wish for moon tea?"

Sansa looks appalled at the thought.

"Our child, Jon. I could be carrying our child. Why would I want moon tea?" she asks, cupping his cheek with her hand.

"Your reputation," he starts, and she silences him with a kiss.

"To seven hells with my reputation. I don't care. I am yours, and you are mine, and nothing can keep me from you, not even the gods themselves," she kisses him again and Jon lets out a contented sigh.

She moves on top of him and lightly touches his mouth before tracing her hand across his muscular abdomen.

"You're insatiable, my lady," Jon teases her, grey eyes sparkling.

"You don't know how long I've wanted this," she says quietly, embarrassed, "ever since Jeyne told me you were going away and would forget all about me I felt…something. I didn't know what it was. And then your family came for your name day and you spent all of your time with Daenerys, I didn't know what that was. I was jealous. I thought you loved her more than you loved me. Gods, I was even jealous of Arya since you two look so alike, I thought she's your favorite" her eyes grow watery and she looks away.

"I could never love anyone more than you," Jon reaches up to brush her hair behind her ear, "I adore Arya, true, but I also adore Bran and Rickon and Robb. But, I love you. Theon took me to a brothel, once. There was a girl with red hair and blue eyes and I tried to pretend it was you, but her freckles and smile and the shade of her eyes and hair were all wrong, so I left," he recalls with a small smile, "I've only ever wanted you, Sansa."

"Oh, Jon," Sansa lowers her head onto his chest, and he wraps an arm around her. "I was so stupid. I told Jeyne that I wanted to marry you, and she went and told Septa Mordane. She told me it was a sin to think such thoughts. That's why I was crying in the stables."

A tear makes its way down her cheek and Jon kisses it away.

"There is a godswood here," he starts slowly.

"I know," Sansa nods, wondering what this had to do anything.

"Sansa Stark, will you marry me under the heart tree? We'll be wed under sight of the Old Gods. I know you keep the Seven like Lady Catelyn, but mother and I -"

She doesn't let him finish. She presses a kiss to his mouth and hugs him.

"Yes, a thousand times, yes."

He pulls her close to him and kisses the side of her head. He knows they will have to face the world soon, if not for breakfast, then for dinner is a certainty. But for now he will hold her and she will hold him and they will enjoy this moment.

* * *

**Next up: Lyanna notices things, Jon and Sansa plan a secret wedding, Arya sneaks off to find Gendry in the middle of the night, Aegon continues to be horrible, and Varys makes an appearance.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry about the last chapter being more of a public service announcement. I'll be taking it down now that only 5,000 or so signatures are left. Thank you for reading and reviewing! Warning for this chapter again: Smut. **

* * *

Sansa and Jon are seated next to each other for breakfast, and Jon keeps his hand firmly on Sansa's knee.

Arya bites back a grin and flashes looks to her sister and her cousin. Sansa merely inclines her head in affirmation and Arya looks down at her poached eggs to hide her smile. She knows what Aegon had done. She hates him now as much as she hates King's Landing. He tried to explain away his actions as passing madness. Arya fears he grows madder with each day.

Rhaegar is seemingly oblivious and Arya wonders what her aunt could ever see in him. Yes, he's comely enough for an older man, but he looks otherworldly. She supposes some ladies found that look preferable. Not Arya. She absentmindedly imagines her ideal man, were she given a choice. Tall with broad shoulders, strong muscles, not so regal as Rhaegar, definitely, sweet with a hint of stubborness, dark, dark hair, and blue eyes the colour of the ocean when angry and the colour of the sky when happy. She takes a bite of her eggs and swallows. Her grey eyes widen. Gendry, she has just described Gendry. She has not seen him in two days and she wishes to see him so much her stomach flips in excitement at the thought of just talking to him again.

Her mind begins to churn with a plan. If Aegon can leave Sansa alone because of Jon, surely if Gendry fucks her she will be disgraced and free to be set aside. Her cheeks turn pink at her vulgar thoughts. Gendry kissing her. Gendry naked. Gendry fondling her. She shakes her head. Why would Gendry even want her? She's a skinny stick of a girl. She's not beautiful like Sansa or Daenerys or Rhaenys. But all she can think of is his mouth on hers. Or him doing what she saw Jon do to Sansa. There's an itch in her, and she hates herself for thinking such thoughts, for being so silly.

Lyanna answers her husband's questions half-heartedly, her gaze riveted on her son and her niece. They are glowing, she realizes. Never has she seen either of them so happy. They are always happiest when together, and initially she chalked it up to the bonds of family. This is something else entirely. As Jon takes bites of his eggs, Sansa tears a piece of bread in half, placing one piece on his plate and the other in her mouth.

He sets his fork down and takes a sip of his watered down wine, carelessly passing his goblet to Sansa. She thinks nothing of sharing food and wine with him and Lyanna's stomach drops. Whenever she sees them, whether it be walking down the corridor or laughing in the gardens, she sees Catelyn and Ned. Or Brandon. Jon has more of Ned in him than Brandon, thankfully, but he's still hot-headed and unthinking at times.

Aegon glares at them, and Lyanna wonders why he hates them so. She knows why, logically. He blames her and Jon for Elia's death. She blames herself, too. She tried to be a good mother to him and Rhaenys, but he simply refused. It was easier with Rhaenys, but as she grew older she became more withdrawn, only truly speaking to Rhaegar or Dany.

Lyanna's gaze flits to Dany. She's drinking some juice thoughtfully, a knowing look on her face as her eyes find Jon and Sansa. Lyanna looks to Arya and she looks like she knows, too. Except Arya is pink in the face. Could she be disgusted by their relations? Her question is answered when she uses her fork to fling some eggs at Sansa, just like old times.

Arya laughs and sticks her tongue out, while Sansa pretends to look cross and Jon and Dany laugh.

_Gods_, Lyanna thinks, _please let them be happy_.

* * *

True joy in the Red Keep seems impossible. Lyanna is entering the kitchens when she hears the cook gossiping with a maid.

"I heard 'em alright. Howling like wolves, the pair of them. I knew the Targaryens were a strange bunch, but to bed his cousin? It's probably why he brought her back from Winterfell. Lord Tywin married his cousin, and look how his sons turned out. One a kingslayer, the other a dwarf. Girl likely hasn't been a maid since the first time the prince touched her," the cook, a large, portly lady, yaps away.

"Surely they are to be wed anyway," the maid says tentatively, "there's no offers for Lady Sansa's hand."

The cooks scoffs, "Sure there have been offers. The dark prince just scares her suitors away, or refuses. He can do that, he's a prince. Poor Prince Aegon wanted the girl, but she refused. Can you believe she doesn't want to be queen? And have you seen the younger one? Walking around, dressed like a boy," she tuts, "Prince Aegon is going to have trouble reeling her in. Why look at the Queen! She just does as she pleases, as if she isn't the reason there was a bloody war."

Lyanna does not clear her throat. She merely goes to speak to the other cook who is actually preparing dinner: roasted duck with potato and sauce. The gossiping cook nearly jumps at the sight of her queen and Lyanna raises a brow.

"Perhaps you should spend your time doing your job instead of spreading vicious lies," her voice is as cold as the winter winds, and the maid looks terrified.

"Yes, your grace. Of course, please, forgive me," the cook bows her head.

Lyanna ignores her and turns to the younger maid, "Go on and get back to your duties." Her voice is softer. The girl is scarce older than a child, with honey coloured hair and brown eyes.

"If it please you, your grace," she curtsies and scurries away.

Lyanna fights a sigh. As long as they live life in court, as royals, the gossip will never evade them.

* * *

Gendry is taking a break from work, for once. Arya has brought enough food with her that they sit in companionable silence, eating. The door, which is usually left open, is now closed to let customers know the smith is off-duty.

In the past month Arya has learned a few things about Gendry. His mother died when he was young, and Tobho Mott and his wife, who was a friend of Gendry's mother, took him in and raised him as one of their own. He doesn't know who his father is. His mother just told him he died during the war. Gendry's been fascinated with smithing since he was a wee lad, thanks to Tobho. Gendry likes honey cakes more than lemon cakes, he likes apples, he has two foster siblings, he will be twenty in a few weeks, and he does not have many friends.

Gendry has learned Arya does not like dresses, she frowns and scowls often, but when she smiles or laughs it's the most beautiful thing he's seen and heard. He knows she is bored in her life as a lady, but he cannot fathom wanting to run away if her family is as wonderful as she describes. He knows she is nervous when she begins to braid her long, dark brown hair. He knows she didn't have to come back once he was done with Needle, but she did. He also knows she is engaged to the prince, but she doesn't seem to care.

He stares plainly at her, this girl wearing her younger brother's breeches and tunic, her hair fastened haphazardly with a piece of leather. She's funny, rude, at times, but funny. She has a temper and he finds he likes it, and she's even more stubborn than he is, which is a shock.

He sets his apple on the counter, still looking at her. She looks up from her own apple and she lowers her hand from her mouth. Her pink, full lips part ever so slightly and Gendry pushes himself away from the counter as if possessed. Arya scrambles from her stool, dropping the apple. They walk towards each other, meeting in the middle. He cups her face with large hands and she stands on her toes. He kisses her softly, his lips chapped. Arya's heart skips a beat (or two). His hands move to her waist, holding onto her loosely. He kisses her slowly, as if he's not quite sure what to do. She's not sure, either, so they brush their lips together agonizingly slow. She fists his shirt in her hand and pulls him closer. She kisses him harder, not sure if she's kissing correctly, but what she lacks in skill she makes up for in enthusiasm. His hold around her middle tightens and soon his tongue works its way into her mouth, no longer hesitant, and _oh gods_ had she known he'd kiss her like this she would've done something sooner.

He stops kissing her abruptly, and begins to apologize.

"M'lady, I -"

Arya silences him with a kiss, "Shut up and kiss me again, you stupid bull."

So he does. Sweetly and slowly, their mouths work against each other. This time her tongue slips into his mouth and he groans, just a bit.

He decides to test the waters and slides a hand over her tunic, onto her breast. Arya jumps at the contact, but refuses to stop kissing him. He rubs her over the shirt, and though it is loose on her she can feel herself strain against the rough spun fabric. She does not wear smallclothes with her shirts, because they're usually substantial enough to conceal her form.

Somehow she ends up bent over the counter, Gendry kissing her still, his hand lazily circling her breast. She takes his hand and guides it underneath her tunic, and he opens his eyes in surprise. Arya nods her head and he releases a shaky breath once his calloused hands find her smooth skin. He thumbs over her tips and mutters _oh gods_.

"Arya, not here," he says suddenly, removing his hand from under his shirt.

Arya straightens up, glaring, "Do you want me or not?"

"Gods, yes. More than anything, but not here. Not where Tobho or a customer could walk in," he tries to explain.

She nods and walks towards the door, opening it then slamming it shut behind her. Gendry leans against the counter, heaving. The king would have his head if he finds out what he's done to the prince's betrothed.

* * *

He's surprised when he finds her sitting on his bed that very night after he returns to his small shack behind the forge. She's not stupid. Common sense told her the little building behind the smithy is his.

"Arya, what are you doing here?" he asks her warily.

She is still wearing a boy's clothes, and it suits her thin frame.

"To finish what we started," she stands from her bed, her footsteps inaudible.

Her arms wrap around his neck and Gendry can't control himself. He knows the trouble he'll get her into, the trouble he'll get into, but she keeps looking at him with those wide eyes and her lips are so soft he can't stop himself. He leans in a bit to capture her lips, and Arya smiles against his mouth, knowing she's won. He lifts her up and pushes her against the wall. She wraps her legs around his hips and presses herself as close to him as possible. Gendry's kisses grow fevered and rushed and his mouth kisses her neck now. Arya arches her back and Gendry raises her up a bit higher. Her head rests against the wall, and she scratches at his back, wishing he weren't wearing a shirt. Or anything.

His hands slides under her shirt as he had done before and grab hold of both breasts. Arya moves her hands to the hem of her tunic and Gendry moves away from the wall, still carrying Arya. He deftly rids her of the shirt and his eyes darken. Arya remembers her little daydream and decides his eyes are the colour of the ocean when he's aroused, not angry.

He presses her back against the wall, a bit more roughly this time.

"Gods, Arya," he mumbles, lowering his head to her chest.

He takes a nipple into his mouth, dragging his tongue around it. His teeth scrape against the protruding tip, one hand squeezing her ass while the other works its way down Arya's breeches. He stills when he feels curls, not a bit of smallclothes to be seen. He thought ladies always wore smallclothes. Clearly, he's wrong.

Arya licks her lips and Gendry groans, pulling her breeches down. She unhooks her legs from around him and deals with her trousers herself. She bends over, lowering them to her ankles and steps out of them.

"Now this just isn't fair," she tsks and in a swift movement Gendry's tunic is tossed into a pile of clothing and his breeches are around his knees.

Arya looks at him, eyes narrowed. Her gaze lowers to a nest of curls, and his erection. She thinks it's rather odd looking, but what does she know? Her gaze flits up to his eyes, back down, and to his eyes again. She licks her lips and bites her lower lip, all the while fluttering her eyelashes. It's what the ladies at court do, like how when Margaery Tyrell speaks to Aegon she's all fluttering eyelashes and licking lips.

Without a word Gendry picks her up and deposits her on his bed. She laughs and he can't help but smile, too. She's the only girl who has ever caught his interest. There have been a few pretty girls who batted their eyelashes at him, but he just felt uncomfortable around them.

Gendry is the only boy Arya has shown interest in, and it scares her. She never used to care. Negotiations for betrothal were always sent away because Ned knew she would run away. He didn't want to drive her to that, like Lyanna's unwanted engagement to Robert had made her run off with a married man. When suitors had the audacity to turn up at Winterfell, she'd challenge them to a duel. If they won, they could speak to her father. If they lost, they had to return home with their tail between their legs.

Gendry does not have to duel. She thinks he might be able to best her, his strength and size alone being enough to overpower her.

He kisses her again, and Arya's legs part without her even noticing. She wants him inside of her. She wants him to take her so she can go up to Aegon and tell her she won't marry him. She wants Gendry to steal her, so they could leave this godforsaken place. They could return North, or scale the Wall and become wildlings, or flee to the Free Cities.

Her arm is raised above her head and Gendry's mouth is occupied with her breast, his hand stroking her sides.

"Gendry," Arya closes her eyes, threading her fingers through black hair. She has known him for scarce more than a month, but she can feel that there will never be anyone else so suited for her.

He licks back up to her neck, kissing her.

"Have you kissed anyone before?" he asks curiously.

"No," she blushes at her inexperience, "have you?"

"No," he answers, blue eyes meeting her grey ones.

He doesn't sound like he's lying, so she smiles at him. He runs his thumb over her brow, unable to believe Arya is lying underneath him. Her eyes are sparkling and she's naked and so, so beautiful he can't believe she chose him. She chose him over a prince. He stills, and Arya pouts.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"You're engaged to the prince, m'lady," he presses his forehead against hers.

"I don't care about him. I want you, my stupid, bull-headed smith," she caresses his stubbly cheek with a small hand and Gendry takes her hand in his, pressing a kiss to it.

"I want you, Arya. I want you more than anything," he mumbles.

"Then take me," she whispers.

"As m'lady commands," he murmurs.

He kisses her slowly, savouring the feeling of her tongue running against his lips. He trails hot kisses down her neck, to her small breasts and down to her belly button. Arya bends her knees and he runs his hands up her thin legs. Who would've known she was hiding such lovely legs under those baggy breaches? Or such a small waist under the equally large tunics? Gendry smiles. He knows, and he's certain he's the only one who does.

His moves a finger slowly inside of her and she watches him with wide eyes. She widens her legs further apart and a second finger joins the first. She wiggles, trying to get comfortable. Soon his mouth warm and wet against her and she lets out a gasp. He looks up at her and stops twisting his fingers inside of her.

She glares at him, "Don't fucking stop!"

He has the audacity to laugh and slowly begins to move his fingers again, his tongue darting in and out.

Arya moans and raises her hips, and soon Gendry's so far gone from her smell and her taste he thinks he could die happy now. His movements are slow and hesitant, but it's not his fault he's just as inexperienced as Arya.

He holds her legs and slides her closer to him. She widens her legs further and he moves his lips back to her mouth and she can taste herself on his breath. Gendry positions himself between her legs and she eyes his size nervously.

"I can stop now," he lets her know, voice kind.

"Don't you dare," Arya meets his gaze.

He enters her slowly, his eyes trained on hers. She stares back and grits her teeth. Seven hells, how is all of _that_ supposed to fit inside of her? He's so much taller and heavier than her (most people are taller and heavier than her, actually) that she should have expected this.

"Get on with it," Arya orders, and Gendry laughs at her bossiness.

With a swift thrust he's inside of her and she chokes out a strangled cry. He moves painfully slow, in and out, and she parts her legs further, so that a leg dangled off of each side of the narrow bed. He moves faster now, eyes forever locked onto hers.

"Fuck," Arya hisses, her chest panting.

Her hips move with his, and soon the pain fades and all she feels is fullness and contentment. Her eyes close and she leans her head back and Gendry fucks her and she's glad it's Gendry who does, but had she known how amazing this is she would've fucked him the day she took Needle to him.

He's panting her name, and she's moaning loudly despite her attempts at controlling herself and before she can comprehend what's happening it's over and done with, and he's no longer in her and her she's achy and sore, but he's kissing her again so that's good.

She stays the night, and when he expresses his concern at her getting caught, she smirks.

"I never get caught."

* * *

Jon rummages through his mother's belongings until he finds it. Her maiden's cloak. Sansa is nearly the same height as Lyanna, and so it should suit their purposes fine. He neatly folds it and moves to exit his mother's chambers when Lyanna appears in the doorway.

She sees the maiden cloak and she knows what Jon is stealing it for.

"Mother, I—" he tries to think of an excuse.

"You have my blessing, and I'm sure your uncle's and Lady Catelyn's as well. Be careful," Lyanna says quietly, pressing a kiss to Jon's forehead.

Jon nods, "Thank you, Mother."

* * *

Oh, how the game is moving along so splendidly. Lord Varys has been in employ for many, many years, and his devotion to the realm is unquestionable.

All he wants is what is right for the realm. Surely another mad king is not what the realm needs? He knows, he sees. He has his little birds everywhere. While the smallfolk and courtiers think of Aegon as a good, kindly lad, he knows the truth. Poor Lady Sansa has been avoiding his advances for years, and now it finally seems as if she's been rescued by her cousin.

There's something about Stark women that make them irresistible to Targaryen men. And now that Sansa's been bedded and soon to be wedded (remember, Varys knows all), Aegon's attentions will fall on the younger Stark. She would make a horrible queen. Queen Lyanna has social graces and courtesies, learned over time, because she loves her lord husband, but Lady Arya will never learn, for she loves someone besides her betrothed. Lord Robert's bastard son, one of the smiths in King's Landing, has caught the eye of the young lady.

Varys giggles to himself. A wolf and a stag. Robert would be so pleased.

It's the early hours of morning when Lord Varys bumps into the she-wolf herself. She's smiling at nothing, still wearing her clothes from the day before, though that's nothing new for this wild child.

"Lady Arya," he greets, inclining his bald head.

"Lord Varys," she attempts a bow, and Varys tries not to roll his eyes. The sooner she's gone from King's Landing, the better. Poor girl would likely rather kill herself than be queen.

"What do you know of House Baratheon, Lady Arya?" he asks.

She raises a brow at the random question, "My father was fostered with Robert Baratheon under Lord Arryn's care. He was engaged to my aunt when she ran away. He started a war."

"Hmm, yes. Anything else?"

Arya shrugs.

"A stag in the guise of a bull is still a stag, and stags don't survive dragons when they love a wolf," he warns her before going on his way.

Arya stands in the courtyard, confused. The eunuch is speaking in riddles. The only bull she knows is Gendry, but what he has to do with Baratheons she doesn't know. He's not some lordling. He's just Gendry. She watches Varys walk away and thinks that he shouldn't be so deep into his cups at such an early hour.

* * *

He won't leave her alone. Arya's face is impassive as Aegon wraps his arm around hers as they take a turn around the gardens. He asks how she likes King's Landing, if she's still homesick, and she scowls.

"Winterfell will always be my home," she says.

His grip on her arm tightens, "King's Landing can be your new home."

She wants to run away from him. Or at least yell that King's Landing will never be her home. She wants to go see Gendry. She wants to be with him again. She wants to tell the king and queen she loves that bastard blacksmith, and that she'd rather marry him than some pampered prince.

"Loosen your grip on my arm right now, my lord, or I will tell the King of your actions towards my dear sister," Arya says in a steely voice.

Almost immediately, his grip loosens. Arya pulls her arm away and frowns at Aegon.

"You are to be king. Learn to treat others with respect if you wish for your people to respect you," she says and walks off.

Aegon stares after her, a soft smile forming on his lips.

* * *

This is probably the strangest wedding ceremony Arya will ever attend. Sansa and Jon are in front of the heart tree in the godswood of the Red Keep. Arya stands as witness, taking the Stark maiden's cloak that Jon removes from Sansa's shoulders. He drapes a black Targaryen cloak with the red dragon emblazoned upon it.

They say the words, which Arya doesn't listen to. She smiles broadly, though her smile is nothing compared to the way Sansa beams. She's absolutely stunning, wearing one of her nicer gowns, of a Stark grey and white. Her hair is in a Northern style braid, reaching the small of her back. Sansa smiles brightly, and clasps Jon's hands. Arya can see her hands are shaking, and notices that Jon's holding onto her so tightly his knuckles are turning white.

He's smiling softly, a dazed expression on his face, as if he can't believe he's marrying Sansa. Tears well up in her eyes and Jon lets go of her hand to brush her cheek before kissing her.

Arya makes a fake-gagging sound, but is truly happy for her sister and her cousin.

Jon and Sansa pull away from each other, laughing. Jon takes the maiden's cloak from Arya and folds it, to be returned to Lyanna.

"Go on, then," Arya shoos them, "go make some babies. I expect one to be named after me."

Sansa and Jon blush like maids, and Arya rolls her eyes.

"Get on with it," she shoos them once more, and this time they entwine their hands, and head towards the direction of Jon's chambers.

* * *

The next day at breakfast, Jon and Sansa are more obvious with their displays of affection. Jon's hand rests on Sansa's, and he draws a circle on the back of her hand with his thumb. They look at their food, glance at each other, then smile. Arya's amused and is content to watch, and Daenerys is quicker than the rest of them.

She lifts her goblet of watered down honeyed wine.

"I'd like to propose a toast. To my dear nephew and his bride," she says.

Aegon looks confused, and lifts his cup, "She's not my bride yet."

"No, my _other_ nephew. To Jon and Sansa, may you have many happy years together, and many beautiful babes," she says with a gentle smile.

Viserys raises a brow, and Rhaenys lifts her own cup, grinning at her little brother. Aegon is her true brother, yes, but Jon shares the same blood Targaryen blood as them. If her brothers are happy, she is happy.

Sansa blushes and Jon smiles. Lyanna tries to look like she knew nothing about this, and Aegon fumes.

"This is a mummer's farce of marriage," he stands abruptly, "a union not recognized by the Seven."

"We keep the Old Gods," Sansa says coolly, "we said the words and he gave me his cloak. We are wed."

"Oh, no," Aegon shakes his head, "the High Septon will announce it null and void."

Jon looks ready to strangle Aegon, when Rhaegar interrupts.

"The High Septon will do no such thing. They are wed in sight of their gods and that is that. They shall be wed in the Great Sept of Baelor after you marry Arya. Until then, not a word of this," he says in a decisive tone, and Aegon slumps back into his seat.

Arya feels like she might have some luck in asking to be released from the marriage agreement, but decides now is not the time.

"Sansa, congratulations on your wedding," Rhaegar says more gently.

"Thank you, your grace," she smiles.

Jon takes her hand and kisses it.

"And you," Rhaegar's eyes dance in amusement, "stealing yourself a wife."

"Sound familiar?" Lyanna asks.

Rhaegar looks at her fondly, "You stole me, remember?"

"Was it I who crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty?" she asks sarcastically.

"It should have been Mother," Aegon says quietly, bringing the celebratory mood down.

"Yes. Yes, it should have," Lyanna agrees softly. Aegon's eyes meet hers and she offers a gentle smile. It is the one thing she'll never forgive Rhaegar for, the slight to Elia. "Your mother truly was the most beautiful woman in Westeros. You and Rhaenys look so much like her."

Rhaneys wipes at her eyes and Aegon is quiet. He looks to Lyanna again. Rhaegar once told him that Elia knew, that she encouraged him to seek a new bride, because she was weak and could not birth the third head of the dragon. Aegon frowns. Jon's no dragon at all. He's a direwolf, and now he's married one, too. His brother's loyalties will always lie to the North, to the Starks. He thinks of Robb and the others as his siblings more than him and Rhaenys, and that is a slight Aegon cannot forget. Now that he's wed Sansa, the Stark children _are_ his siblings. He's just a wolf who has joined a pack.

* * *

**Next: Arya tries to talk to Lyanna about setting aside the engagement, a tourney for Aegon's nameday is planned, some lord visits Tobho Mott and asks to speak to Gendry, and Daenerys and Rhaenys have a little chat about the Free Cities. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you for the kind reviews. No smut warning for this one, but there's still some sexual content, so be warned if you wish to avoid it.**

* * *

Rhaegar stares down his youngest child, his son who is now a man grown. A man grown, wedded and bedded. He doesn't know when Jon had become a man. He didn't get to see much of his childhood. His scraped knees, his first time fighting with live steel, his first anything's. Yes, he saw his first steps and heard his firsts words and for seven years Jon was his.

Jon is no longer his. No. He's the result of an upbringing courtesy of Lord and Lady Stark. The winter may have quelled the fire and blood in his son. He even carries himself like Ned. He's always quiet and serious. Rhaegar sometimes forgets how solemn he himself was until he met Lyanna.

Jon does not flinch under his father's gaze. They are in the king's solar, well after breakfast. Rhaegar had asked Jon to speak to him, and Sansa had looked up from her nearly empty breakfast plate in concern. She almost trailed after them to the solar in order to be there for her husband.

"What possessed you to do this?" Rhaegar asks.

"Love," Jon answers simply.

Rhaegar tries not to rub his eyes.

"I've loved Sansa since I was a child. Do not begrudge us this happiness," Jon says, his voice firm and soft all the same.

"You knew your brother cared for her," Rhaegar starts.

"He barely knows her. And she doesn't even like him," Jon grits his teeth.

Rhaegar wonders if Aegon and Jon would be closer now had Jon remained in the Red Keep. Surely Sansa Stark, no, Sansa Targaryen, would not even be here had Lyanna not gotten her way. Lyanna always gets her way.

"That may be so, but you didn't have to go about in such a manner."

Jon is on the verge of telling Rhaegar exactly what his precious heir has done to Sansa, but he keeps quiet. He knows Rhaegar favours his children with Elia Martell over him. He knows that is why he was sent away to Winterfell. He is grateful, to have grown up under his aunt and uncle's care, and to have met Sansa.

"Arya doesn't like him, either," Jon says.

"I don't see her complaining," Rhaegar's eyes narrow.

"You see nothing, then," Jon says, "may I take my leave, your grace?"

That is a blow to Rhaegar. His children only ever call him _your grace_ when in the company of other courtiers. He's always been _father_. Rhaegar frowns. Jon probably thinks of Ned Stark as his father. Why shouldn't he? Looking at Jon is like looking at Ned from twenty years ago. And Sansa is the spitting image of her mother. Northerners. His son is a Northerner.

Rhaegar nods and Jon leaves, and even his gait is identical to Ned's. He frowns when the door shuts behind Jon. The North has stolen his son, and he in turn has stolen a daughter of the North.

* * *

Arya tries to embroider a grey cloth napkin for Sansa and Jon, a white wolf on it. Lyanna, too, is sewing, and even after years of practice her stitches aren't even.

"Did you know?" Lyanna asks her younger niece.

"I was the witness," Arya admits, tongue between her teeth in concentration.

Lyanna takes in the information and hesitates to ask her the next question.

"Do you like Aegon?"

Arya looks up from her needlework, her eyes iced over, "I'd rather be sent to the Silent Sisters than marry Aegon. You can't make me. None of you can make me."

"He's not so bad," Lyanna tries, "and you'll get to be queen."

"I don't want to be queen," Arya looks down at her lap, tears springing to her eyes, "I don't even want to be a lady. Everything would be so much easier if I were some tavern wench's bastard."

Lyanna's brow furrows and Arya wipes at her face, embarrassed, and horrified that she'll let something slip.

Lyanna tries again, "But you must admit he's handsome."

Arya gives a noncommittal shrug.

"He's not what I imagined a prince would be," she says carefully.

"What did you imagine a prince would be like?"

_Gendry_, Arya wants to say. It's not what she expected but it's what she would've preferred. So she just says, "Someone more like Jon. Or even Father."

"You miss them," Lyanna says knowingly.

Arya looks at her aunt with the same grey eyes she has, that Ned has, "I didn't even say goodbye to them, not truly. I was so angry. I'm still angry."

Lyanna's eyes soften as she looks at this wild girl, who is so much like her when she was that age. She fears Arya will do something brash like run away, but Arya doesn't even like boys, and she doesn't know anyone outside of her family and the courtiers in the Red Keep. She barely interacts with the other lords and ladies.

"I know you don't want to be a lady—"

"How can you know how I feel? You're a queen. You didn't want to marry Robert Baratheon so you ran away," Arya says bitterly. If Lyanna had married Robert, Aegon would never have met her. Would never even know she existed.

"Running away isn't the answer," Lyanna starts.

"It sure worked out for you, didn't it?" she bites, venom in her voice, "what's one dead brother and a dead father if you get to be queen?"

Lyanna's gaze turns cold. Arya stands.

"If I may be excused, your grace," she says sourly, not even waiting for a response.

Something is going on with that girl. She'd been so happy mere days ago, but talk of Aegon makes her angry. Lyanna suspects Sansa may know. The sisters are closer than anyone gives them credit for.

* * *

Arya nuzzles her head into the crook of Gendry's shoulder. She doesn't know what's possessed her to seek him out in the middle of the day, but she was so angry with the queen she needed to let out her frustration. She tried hacking away at a dummy in the training yard, but she only grew angrier. She imagined the dummy was Aegon.

After inflicting deep cuts on the dummy, she washed her face and changed her clothes before sneaking into the streets of King's Landing.

She finds Gendry working on a plate of armor, and upon seeing her he drops everything he's doing.

There, in the forge, they kiss quickly, roughly. Gendry is always so gentle that Arya needs to be rough, just this once. Gendry doesn't ask what's got her so riled up. She'll tell him in her own time. Her teeth rake across his neck and he grips her hips tightly. Gods, she's going to be the death of him.

They hear someone enter the smithy and jump apart. He fixes his shirt and tries to make himself look presentable.

"Stay here," he says softly, moving towards the front of the shop.

It's some lord. He's fat and finely dressed, a hat upon his head. He looks about the work on display, eye catching on the bull's helm.

"May I help you, m'lord?" Gendry asks.

"I'm interested in a dagger," he says with a voice higher than Gendry had been expecting.

"What kind?" he asks.

"Small. Dainty, almost. It's for a lady," he clarifies with a small smile, as if he's in on a secret.

"Jewel encrusted?" Gendry asks. Tobho usually deals with requests like this.

"Hmm, yes. Rubies, perhaps," the lord says.

His eyes take in Gendry's appearance with great interest and Gendry shifts uncomfortably.

"How old are you?" the lord asks, "you seem young to be a smith."

"I'm nearly twenty, and an apprentice still," Gendry answers.

"Your parents must be very proud of your work," he says lightly.

Gendry grits his teeth, "My parents are dead."

The lord's brows rise.

"Well, the dagger. Can you do it?" he asks.

Gendry nods.

"I mean for it to be a name day gift for my niece. In three weeks," he says, and Gendry nods once more.

Once he is gone Gendry returns to the back room to find Arya waiting for him.

"He talked a lot," she quips before smashing her mouth onto his.

* * *

A letter sealed with the Baratheon sigil arrives days later. Varys opens it with barely contained glee. Oh, Lord Renly is a good man. Kind and just, not to mention charming. The young Storm Lord has no bride and no heirs, and with him being the last remaining Baratheon, he is trying to find his eldest brother's bastards. So far, a Mya Stone is in his care at the moment, and he is trying to locate more children. Mya is near two and twenty, and Renly now wishes to find his remaining nieces and nephews.

Varys has written to Renly about the smith, and now Renly himself wishes to come see the boy. The Prince's name day tourney would be the most opportune time to set up a meeting, would it not? Renly would arrive to renew his pledge of allegiance to the Iron Throne, to atone for his brother's folly, and in between festivities he can meet Gendry.

The Master of Whispers has other plans, though. Plans involving him meeting a certain princess. While he's heard of Renly's _preferences_, the Targaryens are so beautiful he may just seek the hand of Rhaegar's little sister.

* * *

Jon's sitting in a tub of water after training, covered in dirt and sweat and a bit of blood. The boys he trains with are eager, but they're summer knights, playing at war. Winter is coming, and they need to be ready. He can feel it in his bones.

His wife (he still can't believe she's his wife, every day is like a beautiful dream), sits in a chair behind him, and washes his hair with gentle fingers.

He lets out a moan and Sansa giggles.

"You should be in this tub with me," he closes his eyes and leans his head back.

"Do you think it'll be more efficient, husband?" she asks with a playful grin.

"I think so, wife," Jon smiles, eyes still closed.

He hears the soft rustling of skirts and the sound of water swishing back and forth. Sansa eases herself into the tub, cramped as it might be, and Jon opens his eyes. She's holding a washcloth and moves towards him to wipe at his chest, the cloth catching on coarse black hairs.

"You've got a cut," she brings her fingers to a slash on his shoulder.

"Just a nick. Loras Tyrell got a bit too excited," Jon says with a small smile.

"You tell Loras Tyrell that if he cuts you again, I'll cut him. With Ice," she says darkly, referring to her father's great sword.

Jon snorts, imagining Sansa running after the boy with Ice. She's fiercely protective, his Sansa.

"You don't think I can?" Sansa asks indignantly. She knows she's not tough like Arya, nor does she have the physical strength, but she could with proper training.

"I think you can do anything," Jon says, leaning forward to brush his nose on hers.

Sansa smiles, "Will you teach me to swordfight?"

Jon looks startled, and Sansa continues.

"The ladies of Bear Island fight to protect themselves. Aunt Lya can fight, Arya can fight. Even Theon's sister can fight, and she captains ships," she reasons out, "I should be able to fight, to. To protect myself."

"I'll protect you," Jon says in confusion. Sansa's hand caresses his cheek and she shakes her head.

"I know you'll protect me whenever and however you can, but you can't constantly be by my side," she reasons.

"I'll teach you," Jon promises, "first thing in the morning."

"First thing?" she raises a brow, running her hand don his cheek, to his chest.

"Second thing," he corrects, earning a giggle and a splash of water in his direction.

* * *

Sansa and Jon are sickeningly cute. Dany can't help but smile when she sees them together. It's like something out of a song, childhood sweethearts, one a perfect lady the other a princely knight.

Everyone, save Aegon, seems to be in a good mood. Rhaenys has come out of her shell, with the aid of Sansa's friendship, and she's not as reliant on her older brother anymore. Arya Stark is a blessing to Rhaenys, as well. She warmed up to her future good-sister quickly, and despite Arya's blatant dislike of Aegon, she's a spirited girl and unfailingly kind to Rhaenys, much like Sansa is.

Sometimes Daenerys wonders how her oldest brother can be so blind. How he does not see what is right in front of his nose. Lyanna is better, more observant. Rhaegar does not see the hostility in Aegon, especially where Jon and Lyanna are concerned.

While Jon was being born in the Tower of Joy, surrounded by the Kingsguard, Elia Martell was being murdered by Lannister men. And now Prince Oberyn Martell is married to Tywin Lannister's daughter. And now Quentyn Martell, Doran's eldest son, writes letters to Daenerys about joining their Houses once again. Each time Dany receives a letter with the sun and spear sigil, she rolls her eyes. A_ Targaryen and Martell marriage worked out so well the first time_, she thinks sarcastically. Elia and Rhaegar respected each other and were friends, but they were not in love. Daenerys will settle for nothing less than true love, should she ever marry. Quentyn's letters are tedious, but at least she is spared from the golden-haired Joffrey Martell, who barely looks like a Martell. The gods surely must laugh at them all, what with their alliances and politicking.

She tries to find a time alone with Rhaenys, to speak about if she'd like to join her in the Free Cities after Aegon and Arya's wedding, but Rhaenys seems terrified at the thought. She's never been much of an adventurer, but then again she was old enough during the sack of King's Landing to remember what had happened. She had seen her own mother murdered, and she surely would have been next had Rhaegar not ridden back into the city after killing the Baratheon man at the Trident. Despite being the younger of the two, Daenerys would find herself comforting her niece. Rhaenys still suffers from nightmares, though she doesn't like to talk about them. All Dany could do was brush her brown hair gently and scoot over in her bed so Rhaenys could sleep. Dany promises Rhaenys she'll be by her side, always, if she comes with her across the Narrow Sea, but the princess simply refuses.

Daenerys holds a wooden sword in her hand, as does Sansa. She's borrowed breeches from Arya, but they are shorter on her than she would've liked. Daenerys is dressed in silk pants from Lys and a fitted top that allows her to move swiftly. Sansa looks uncomfortable in the baggy tunic, one of Jon's thinner belts wrapped around her waist to give her some shape.

Arya bites back a laugh as Jon holds Sansa's hand, leading her through the motions. Rhaenys and Arya sit on the wooden fence surrounding the training grounds, mirth obvious.

"What's possessed her to learn to fight?" Rhaenys wonders aloud.

Arya shrugs, wondering if Gendry can make Sansa a sword.

Jon shows Sansa the motions she must go through. Step forward slightly, elbow back, bring the sword down on the target. Sansa repeats his motions, and likens it to dancing. If she can dance, surely she can sword fight. Even Arya calls her lessons with Syrio Forel water dancing.

Sansa is certainly graceful, and her movements are fluid enough. She holds the pommel of the sword awkwardly and Jon gently fixes her grip. He backs away and she steps forward again, slicing the wooden sword through the air.

Jon gives a nod, and now Sansa watches as he and Dany practice. They swing the swords up and down, side to side, hitting each other and moving slowly so that Sansa could learn.

Sansa mimics the motions, and Rhaenys turns to Arya.

"She's quick," she says kindly.

"Of course she is, she's a Northerner," Arya says proudly, earning a laugh from her future good-sister.

Now Daenerys steps off to the side, and Jon and Sansa face each other. Jon looks uneasy at the prospect of fighting with his wife.

"Kick his ass, Sansa," Arya calls. Rhaeyns's eyes widen at her vulgarity and Arya shrugs.

"Northerners," she says as if it explains her crassness.

Sansa sends Arya a reproachful look while Jon tries not to smile. _Gods, they look like Mother and Father_, Arya thinks. Father had always been more lenient with her, while Mother tried to groom her into a proper little lady. The look on Sansa's face now makes her look exactly like Lady Catelyn.

Jon moves towards Sansa slowly, and she looks scared. She brings the wooden sword down on Jon's shoulder lightly, as if giving him a tap.

"Oh, come on," Dany snorts, crossing her arms.

Jon gives Sansa an equally light tap on the leg. Arya starts laughing, unable to control herself. She doubles over, clutching her stomach, and soon Rhaneys and Dany are cackling in amusement as well.

Jon and Sansa stop. Jon glares, and Sansa pouts slightly.

"Sorry, sorry," Arya wheezes, "but I think someone else should teach Sansa how to fight. Y'know, someone better."

"Who?" Jon asks, "_You_?"

Arya nods and her cousin rolls his eyes. She leaps from the wooden posts, takes Sansa's practice sword, and falls into a sideface stance.

"Watch and learn, sweet sister," Arya says.

Sansa goes to sit next to Rhaeneys, and they watch as Arya attacks Jon. They parry and hit the swords against each other. She's quick and light on her feet, but then again, so is Jon. He doesn't appear to have so many qualms about sparring with his little cousin. Arya strikes a blow to Jon's shoulder and it looks like it hurt, even when using the wooden swords Arya refers to as sticks.

Jon strikes back, hitting her in the side. Sansa folds her hands in her lap, trying not to tell them stop being so barbaric. Arya lets out what sounds like a roar, and now Sansa is sure there's no method at all. She's just beating Jon silly, hitting him repeatedly on the back while he laughs.

"That's not proper form," Dany sniggers, arms still crossed.

"Enough," Sansa stands, glaring at her husband and her sister.

Arya stops mid-smack and looks up at Sansa with a fearful expression. Sansa schools her features into a look of being cross, and Jon steps back hesitantly. Arya nearly runs behind him, but wolves are never scared.

"If you're not going to be serious about this, there's no use," she says icily.

Arya lowers her gaze, as if Mother were chastising her. Sansa takes the wooden sword from Arya and advances on Jon. She hits him, trying not to laugh at his cowed expression.

By this point, Rhaenys and Dany can't subdue their laughter any longer, and even later at dinner, they burst into giggles upon glancing at Sansa and Jon.

* * *

Arya gasps, clutching the thin, rough sheet beneath her. Gendry has gotten very, very good at this. The awkward fumbling around, the slow and steady rhythm, has now given away to precise and heated motions and fast thrusts and pulls and tugs. Practice does make perfect, after all. Gendry never thought of his name in terms of whether or not he liked it. It's just a name, after all. Except now Arya's panting his name over and over again, with different inflections and tones for each little move he makes (Gendry, _Gendry_, _Gen_DRY, _GENDRY, GE-NDRY_) and he thinks it's never sounded sweeter.

Gendry grunts, and Arya's legs tighten around him. She feels good, contented. Happy. Dare she find herself happy? The closer her wedding date gets, the more she finds herself in Gendry's shanty of a home. His lips are upon hers, and she welcomes his tongue into her mouth. She looks well-kissed and well-fucked every time she returns to the Red Keep, and she starts to suspect that people know. She's pretty sure Sansa knows, but her sister, may the gods old and new bless her, says nothing. She knows what it's like to have to sneak around.

He spends himself in her and holds himself above her, not letting himself fall. He's still afraid he'll crush her with his weight. She knows he won't ever hurt her, and despite her innate sceptical nature, she trusts him. He has an honest face. His blue eyes are guarded, but he looks at her like she's some sort of gift from the gods.

"I've never had a friend before," Gendry whispers against her shoulder, kissing it.

"Not one?" she asks quietly, relishing each tiny bit of information he gives her. She wants to know everything about him.

"No," he murmurs, not sharing any more. She doesn't mind. He'll tell her if he thinks it pertinent.

"Well I'm your friend," Arya says, pressing her head to his chest.

He chuckles, "I don't think friends usually fall into bed with their other friends."

She looks up at him with warm grey eyes, "Well, you were my friend first. Now you're mine."

"And you're mine," Gendry says, kissing the top of her head. He knows it's not true. He'll forever be Arya's, but she'll never be his. She's promised to the prince, bloody lords and ladies and their political alliances. He'd give her anything she wanted, he'd follow her if only she'd give the word.

For all her talk about running away, he doubts she'd bring the dishonour upon her family. Arya always has ways of surprising him, though.

* * *

**Well, that was that. The Prince's tourney is coming up, so we're nearing the events of chapter one and the immediate fall-out. **


	6. Chapter 6

**To the reviewer who asked how the hell Oberyn agreed to marry Cersei, let's just say the Martells have plans and are hoping their patience pays off. Oberyn married her for revenge. Cersei's marriage isn't anything she'd hoped for, and is a punishment to her. Gregor Cleagne's been executed, Tywin's dead, Jaime's on the Wall or dead, Tyrion is lord of Casterly Rock, and Cersei's husband has tonnes of bastards who he dotes on like they were his trueborn children (in this case just Cersei only has Myrcella), because he hates Cersei. At feasts Ellaria sits with them at the dais, further insulting Cersei. Without her brother and father, she's not the same Cersei she is in the series, and the final blow is when he names one of his bastards with Ellaria after Elia. This will be further explained later on.**

* * *

Lyanna holds the parchment, grey eyes scanning over it quickly. Sansa has written to her parents of her and Jon's impromptu wedding, and Catelyn Stark has sent two letters in return – one addressed to Sansa and Jon, the other to Lyanna. She holds the second letter in her other hand, still unopened.

She finds Sansa reading in the greenhouse near the gardens and hands her the letter.

"From your parents," Lyanna says without preamble.

Sansa takes it nervously, afraid of being reprimanded for marrying her cousin, especially without telling them first. She shouldn't be afraid, though. Wolves are strong.

She breaks the seal and begins to read. Lyanna stands by, pretending to tend to the winter roses Rhaegar grows just for her.

_Dearest Sansa,_

_I can't say I'm surprised, sweetling. You and Jon have always had a connection, though you weren't the closest as children. Your father and I are not mad, or upset. We just wish you would have told us about your feelings before we let you go to King's Landing. Then again, I suspected something was different, all those years ago when Jon asked if he could take you to King's Landing. At that point I thought he was just a child who would miss his cousin. I knew then, though I did not acknowledge it, that it was more than that. I count myself lucky that you have fallen in love with a boy who grew up under mine and your lord father's care. A boy who is not Theon, mind you. Jon is as much a Stark as you are, and you two will always be welcomed in Winterfell with open arms. Take care of each other, sweetling. Love each other and respect each other. Be happy._

_All my love,_

_Catelyn Stark_

Sansa lets out a sigh of relief, and Lyanna smiles.

"Good reaction?" she asks.

"Yes, very good," Sansa holds the letter to her chest.

"They plan on coming for Arya's wedding, and since yours will be after, they intend to stay for that as well," Lyanna informs her.

Sansa breaks out into a grin, "Really?"

"Your parents, Bran, and Rickon," Lyanna clarifies.

Sansa nods, disappointed Robb won't be with them. But there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. And now that Dacey's with child, he won't let her leave his sight, let alone trek to the capitol.

"How is Arya?" Lyanna asks quietly. Her younger niece barely speaks to her, and she rarely even deigns to show up for breakfast.

"As well as she can be, given the circumstances," Sansa looks down.

"Aegon is not a bad man. He has a temper, is all," Lyanna tries to explain her stepson's actions. He is quite pleasant when Viserys does not whisper into his ear. He grew up without a mother, for Elia perished when her son was just a babe. Lyanna tried to fill the role as mother to the best of her ability, and for a time, Aegon let her. But by the time he was six and Jon scarcely five, Viserys's unkind words had convinced him Jon was not truly his brother, and Lyanna a horrible stepmother.

"Arya thinks, hopes, he won't keep to her bed," Sansa bites her lip, "she says he can have all the ladies and whores he wants, so long as he does not touch her."

Lyanna closes her eyes for a brief moment, remembering her concerns about her long-dead betrothed.

"Why can't you speak to the king? Please, Aunt Lya, do not condemn Arya to a life of misery. I can't be happy while my sister suffers," Sansa looks up at her aunt with large blue eyes, and Lyanna decides to speak with Rhaegar. For Arya.

* * *

When Sansa starts to look ill at the sight of breakfast, she keeps to her chambers. When she begins to vomit into a basin, Jon holds her hair back. The Prince's tourney is in two weeks, his wedding to Arya the month after, and Sansa seems to be afflicted with mother's stomach. The wedding in the Sept must be pushed forward if her honor is to remain untainted. That would mean Arya's wedding is pushed up, too.

A few days after Sansa begins to turn green at the sight of anything but lemon cakes, Arya notices her moon blood is late. She begins to panic, pacing around her room, hand on her belly. She never wanted to be a mother, and she gets the tea from Sansa, who gets it from a handmaiden, but she can't bring herself to drink it, knowing Gendry's child could be inside of her. The moon tea ends up wedged in a random drawer, out of sight and out of mind.

She almost tells Gendry, and she wonders if he'd be happy. If he'd marry her in secret, if they'd run away. She smiles, running her hand over her flat stomach. Gendry would be a good father. She doubts her skills as a mother, but if Gendry is by her side, she wouldn't mind.

She almost tells Gendry, but she doesn't. The day she is to tell him of her suspicions, she wakes up in a bloody bed. She doesn't go see him and instead cries for the child that never was. It had been a fluke, she'd barely been a week late.

Sansa comes into her chambers and sees her sister's tear-stained cheeks and red eyes. She sits down and pulls Arya into her lap, running her fingers through her hair like Mother used to.

"Shh," Sansa soothes. She does not know why her sister is crying, but she can hazard a guess. She thinks the boy, whoever he may be, better treat her sister well, lest she herself run him through with Ice.

Arya hiccups and Sansa rubs her back, holding her like she used to when she scraped a knee. Arya used to run to Jon more than anyone else, but this time it's Sansa who Arya turns to. Sansa tries to make light of the situation and thinks Jon cannot handle Arya's pregnancy scare, because sometimes he sees her as a little girl.

Sansa helps Arya get rid of the soiled sheets and places a fresh one on the mattress, despite it being a servant's job. Arya clutches her stomach in pain. Whether it's emotional or physical, Sansa thinks it might be both.

She has the maids run a bath for Arya, and after she's washed and cleaned Sansa helps her into trousers and a linen shirt and vest, and then she combs Arya's wild waves.

Arya doesn't speak, but she lets her sister braid her hair. One of the few times Arya feels pretty is when Sansa does her hair. The other times are when Gendry kisses her mouth, her neck, her shoulders, every last inch of her, marvelling at her supposed beauty. She thinks he's insane, if he thinks she's beautiful. At the thought of Gendry her eyes start to well again, but she does not let herself cry. Wolves don't cry.

* * *

All Sansa wants to eat are lemon cakes. Or drink lemon water. It's all she can stomach. The kitchens are bursting to the brim with lemon, and Doran Martell has them imported especially from the less dry regions of Dorne, for all the lemons in King's Landing are not enough to sate Sansa's appetite.

Arya laughs as Sansa bites into another lemon cake.

"Honestly, Sansa, it's worse than when you were a girl," she teases.

"You try having to feed an extra person who doesn't like anything else," Sansa snaps, her mood souring suddenly. She sees Arya's downcast look and bites her lip, "Oh, Arya."

She looks up and tries to smile, "You'd better name this one after me."

"What if it's a boy?" Sansa asks.

"Arry," she answers simply.

"I was thinking about naming him after Father, if it's a boy," Sansa says, hand on her belly. She's not swelling yet, but by her count it's not even been two months. Jon already waits on her hand and foot. He barely lets her do anything, and now he won't even let her continue her lessons in swordfighting. She sees the logic behind that decision, but it doesn't mean she has to like it.

Arya looks away at the mention of their father. She refuses to read the letters addressed to her from Winterfell, nor does she write to them. She's still mad.

She makes a noncommittal noise and busies herself with a lemon cake. Someone needs to help Sansa finish the plates upon plates of cake, after all.

"And if it's a girl?" Arya asks curiously.

Sansa shrugs, "Minisia, maybe. Or a Targaryen name."

"Nymeria," Arya automatically spits out.

"The warrior queen of the Rhoynar?" Sansa raises a thin brow, lips twitching into a grin, "save that name for your own babe."

Arya makes a sour face, "Aegon would probably pick a stupid name."

"Not Aegon," Sansa shakes her head, and Arya has hope that someone will put aside this insanity of a betrothal.

* * *

"Aegon will not like it," Rhaegar rubs his forehead, feeling a headache coming on.

"I know you wish to please your children, but think of the realm," Lyanna circles behind Rhaegar to wrap her arms around him. She kisses his cheek and he leans into her touch, "Do you truly wish a queen who does not wish to be queen upon Westeros?"

Rhaegar turns around and cups his wife's cheek with his hand, "She can learn, Lyanna. She can grow to love Aegon and she can learn how to rule."

"But she doesn't _want_ to," Lyanna says, wondering how to convince her husband to void the contract.

"And Stark women always get what they want, don't they?" Rhaegar asks quietly, brushing his thumb over his jaw.

"There's always a price to pay. As much as I love her, Ned has indulged Arya, so have Catelyn and Robb and Jon and Sansa. She's more wildling than lady, and unfit to be queen," Lyanna tries to appeal to his sensible side.

"You're part wildling yourself, my queen," Rhaegar says quietly.

"That my be, but I loved you, and wanted to be with you," Lyanna presses her forehead against Rhaegar's.

"_Loved_?" he asks.

"Of course I still love you, my stupid prince, but we paid the price for that love. I don't want to condemn Arya or Aegon to an unhappy, miserable marriage," Lyanna says desperately, "they should be as lucky as we are."

Rhaegar pulls away and kisses her, but makes no promises. He shall see to throwing Margaery Tyrell in his son's path more often.

* * *

Arya curls up next to Gendry, and he runs his fingers through her tangled hair. She wishes to stay like this forever, to never return to the Red Keep.

"You'll be wed soon," he says blankly, eyes a stormy blue.

She looks at him sadly. His eyes always betray his stoic expression. She's said it before and she'll say it again.

"I'd sooner run away than marry him," she says.

"Will you?" Gendry asks seriously, "run away with me?"

Deep blue eyes bore into hers, and she remains quiet. Her mind churns. Would she run away with him? Bring shame upon her family? Make them worry? She bites the inside of her lip. All she can think about is being with Gendry until the end of her days. They could create aliases for themselves, live in the woods and eat what she hunted down. She can feel him tense beside her and before she has a chance to say yes, he speaks.

"You're a lady, Arya. You have a duty to your family, I understand," he says quietly.

"No," she shakes her head and lifts herself up to lean over him.

"I don't have a family, but you do. Go to them," Gendry says, brushing his thumb over her cheek.

"I can be your family," she says.

He smiles, "You'd be my lady."

"Shut up," she chuckles, punching him lightly.

"Make me," he says in a low voice, nearly growling.

She kisses him hard and fast, settling herself on top of him, hips moving in time with his.

"I love you," Gendry whispers, gazing up at Arya.

"You're just saying that," she turns pink, slowing her motions.

"No. I fucking love you," he sounds dazed, and he's afraid she'll run away. Instead she kisses him slowly, sweetly.

"I—I love you, too," she stammers, her nose brushing against his. It's madness, to love someone so completely so quickly. Sometimes people are made for each other, like Mother and Father or Jon and Sansa. She suspects Gendry is for her, and only her.

He is hers as she is his, and she swears to him that she will never be anyone else's.

As they drift off to sleep, he kisses her shoulder and she promises again. He grins at her fondly and simply holds her, knowing Arya of House Stark could never marry him, but he can love her, and she can love him back.

* * *

The next time Arya steals away to see Gendry he can barely look at her. She lets it slip that the wedding date has been moved in order to accommodate Sansa's soon to be growing belly. His jaw tenses and when she tries to embrace him he holds her mechanically. She pulls away, tears threatening to fall. She'd been crying far too much because of this stupid bull-headed boy, and she was sick of it.

"Gen," she tries.

"It's late, m'lady. You should get on home to your castle and your prince," his voice is thick.

Arya's mouth opens in defiance, "I told you I'd run away with you. We just have less time than I thought to plan, is all."

"You really should go, m'lady," he holds the door open for her and she punches him, storming out in a rage.

* * *

All the preparations have been made for the prince's name day tourney. Jon had joined the lists for the jousting competition, while Aegon would be engaged in combat. He had been leaving Sansa alone as of late, and had apologized countless times for his unacceptable behavoir. Sansa suspects it has something to do with Arya's glares and his spending more time with Danerys and less time with Viserys.

Lords and ladies from around the seven kingdoms are in attendance, many of them staying at the Red Keep.

Arya runs down a corridor, a small bundle of cakes in her arms. She comes screeching to a halt when a man gets in her way. She looks up, ready to yell, when her throat dries. It's Gendry, or at least, a lord in fine clothing who looks like Gendry.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," she inclines her head.

"I beg _your_ pardon, my lady," he smiles, bright blue eyes taking in her appearance. She's wearing Bran's clothes, once again. She had been intent on seeing Gendry before the madness of the tourney began. She wants to apologize, and she's certain he'll be all sweet words and sincere apologies for his behaviour the other night.

Arya is uncomfortable under his gaze. His eyes are the exact same shade as Gendry's, and his hair is the same colour. The only differentiating feature besides his lordly clothing is his facial hair.

"Lady Arya, I presume?" he asks.

Arya nods, "I'm sorry, my lord, but I do not know who you are."

"I didn't think you would. Renly Baratheon, of Storm's End," he inclines his head.

Arya's heart stops. _A stag in the guise of a bull is still a stag._

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord, but I must go," she says.

"Please, I don't mean to keep you, my lady," Renly smiles at her and she scurries off, not daring to look back at him.

When she finds Gendry neither at the smithy nor his home, she fears the worst.

* * *

Arya's stuck wearing a stupid dress, dark grey with silver embellishments. Sansa did her hair, taking thin strands and weaving them into an elaborate braid. Sansa looks radiant, of course, wearing a Tully blue dress that made her eyes brighter. In fact, Sansa is glowing, sitting up in the royal box.

Daenerys wears a purple dress that drapes over her petite frame, while Rhaenys wears a red and orange dress that compliments her complexion. Lyanna wears Targaryen red and Stark grey, and the colours work well together.

Rhaegar sits next to Lyanna, his hand resting atop his wife's. Viserys looks out at the arena with a bored expression, only livening up when things get violent.

Renly Baratheon unhorses a jouster from House Whent, and pulls his helmet off in victory.

Lyanna takes a sharp breath, and Arya watches as Rhaegar's hand tightens on hers. He's to joust with Jon next, and Jon ends up winning the entire jousting match.

He hands a single red rose to Sansa, who turns the color of her hair. Everyone would later remark at how much they looked like Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, and the pair of them would look embarrassed and smile while the news of their "engagement" is announced later at the feast.

Aegon easily disarms his competitors, with Loras Tyrell being one of the few who gives him a real challenge. While it's Aegon's name day celebration, everyone in the stands whispers about the mystery knight who ends up beating all his competitors into submission.

Arya tries to convince herself it's not Gendry when she's sees that blasted bull's helm. Perhaps the stubborn boy had finally been convinced to sell it. Arya also tries not to notice Renly Baratheon taking a keen interest in the man with the warhammer. She notes Lyanna's unflinching gaze and Rhaegar's furrowed brow.

In the end it's Aegon and the mystery knight, facing off against each other. The battle is hard fought, with blow after blow, parry after parry, hit after hit. It lasts seconds, it lasts days, Arya does not know. All she knows is that she clenches her hands tightly into fists and Sansa sends her a strange look.

The warhammer crashes against Aegon, and he falls to the ground with a clamour and a thud. He stands after a moment, pulling black helmet off to announce the mystery knight as the winner of the tourney. He takes the mystery knight's hand and raises it in victory and congratulations. He tells the man to take his helmet off, so he does. He lifts the bull's helm off and tosses it onto the ground. The crowd bursts into applause for this stranger who bested their prince. His eyes meet Arya's, only Arya's, and her heart beats so rapidly she's sure all of King's Landing can hear.

From beside her Lyanna lets out a breathy _Robert_ so quietly only Arya hears. Yards away Renly Baratheon gapes at the boy who looks like he could be his brother. _Or his nephew._

_Stags in the guise of bulls. _Arya's heart beats rapidly, and her stomach flips. Aegon hands Gendry a crown of blue winter roses picked from Lyanna's garden, and he's to pick the queen of love and beauty.

Arya tries to tell him with her eyes to go to someone else, but he walks towards the royal box seats. He walks towards her slowly, and she wants to hit him repeatedly. Her stupid bull.

"M'lady," he raises the wreath towards Arya, who takes it with shaking hands. He inclines his head in respect and she tries to control her motions.

"What is your name, ser?" Queen Lyanna asks.

"I am no ser, Your Grace," he replies in a self-deprecating manner, "I am just some tavern wench's bastard."

Lyanna openly stares at him and Rhaegar's eyes narrow at the young man who bears a striking resemblance to the young Lord of Storm's End. It's like looking at Robert Baratheon at the Battle of the Trident, with his black hair slick with sweat against his forehead and blue eyes. But this boy's eyes are brighter, not dull and dying with defeat and heartbreak.

Gendry bows his head once more and disappears from the arena, and Arya stands, watching him leave. The flowers are crumpled in her hands that she fists at her sides. Aegon sends her a questioning look, and she sits back down before arousing suspicion.

The tourney is over, but she must make an appearance at the feast. She hopes Gendry is not foolish enough to be there. She hopes he is foolish enough to be there. She's a fool, too.

* * *

Rhaegar announces that Jon and Sansa will be wed after Aegon and Arya, and a roar of cheers rings through the Great Hall. They sit up at the dais, the silver haired Targaryens, the dark haired Martells, the red and brown haired Starks. _Uniting Westeros, one political alliance at a time_, Arya cringes.

Jon holds Sansa's hand all throughout the feast, and they share their food discreetly. Daenerys and Rhaenys laugh at something stupid Viserys says, but Arya doesn't know what it was.

Aegon is actually smiling, talking to his father and Lyanna civilly.

"Shame we never got that boy's name. We could use good knights," Aegon says conversationally.

Arya sees Lyanna freeze and her heart lodges into her throat. It's too hot, and her stupid dress itches. She peers at the festivities, trying to look impassive. Margaery Tyrell looks beautiful, wearing a light blue and gold coloured dress, and dances with Lord Renly.

They look good together. Arya clenches her jaw. He looks so much like Gendry that all she sees is Margaery fucking Tyrell putting her hands all over Gendry. Her Gendry. Not Margaery's, not anyone else's, hers. It's not fair to Margaery, though. She's dancing with Renly and Margaery's only been the paragon of friendliness to her and Sansa.

She takes a long sip of honeyed wine and decides to go outside to get some air.

She finds Gendry right outside the Great Hall, and he's got bags under his eyes and he looks sad. He's just seen what her life is like.

He nods his head at her and she itches to touch him. Instead she stands as close to him as close as polite society deems proper.

"Will you still be my family?" she asks in a quiet voice. She can't stand the Great Hall, the Red Keep. The pressure is too much. She doesn't care about any of that shit.

"If m'lady commands it," Gendry bows his head.

She shakes her head, "You have to want it, too."

"I will be your family and anything you ask of me, forever and always," Gendry leans into her ear, whispering. She takes a sharp intake of breath and smiles gently.

"When did you become such a romantic?" she teases.

He smiles at her, the foul mood from days before gone, and takes his leave after pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. They're both fools, but they're fools in love.

* * *

_Swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow_. Escaping from her chambers to the city is not as difficult a task as someone would make it seem. She has a small bundle of clothes and a coin purse with some golden stags. She's wearing Bran's cast-offs and she'd only packed herself breeches and shirts and vests. She leaves the dresses, figuring if the bust is let out a smidge, Daenerys could wear them, since they're of the same height.

She leaves a note for Lyanna, despite still being upset with her. She writes one for Jon and Sansa, a short one, and she hopes that should she return one day with Gendry, they won't have their heads.

She takes one of the passageways Dany had shown her, and finds herself outside of the Red Keep, on a city street. Good. She doesn't risk stealing a horse from the stables, but she need not worry. She's got enough money to buy two, but all they need is a ship to Braavos.

Arya walks into Gendry's small shack and he kisses her quickly. He too has packed a few of his belongings, and he's got a sword, much like how Arya has Needle by her side.

"We're doing this?" he asks quietly.

Arya nods, "Yes."

He breaks out into a grin and she wraps her arms around him. She pulls away and rummages around the small room.

"What're you looking for?" he asks.

"Scissors," she replies. She finds them in a shallow drawer, pulls the hood of her cloak off, and brings them to her long brown hair.

"What are you doing?" he asks, eyes squinted.

"They'll all be looking for some highborn girl, not a boy," Arya says as if it's obvious.

"Arya, even with short hair, no one would believe you're a boy," he says gently, taking the scissors from her.

He's right about that. She's got breasts and hips. They're small, but they're there. She snatches the scissors back.

"They'd use my hair as a descriptor to try and find me, The can't if it's not there anymore," she says with a tone of finality.

She brings her hair over one shoulder and hacks at it. She quietly curses the tangles she didn't brush out. Gendry steps behind her and takes the scissors, cutting her hair as evenly as he can. After a few minutes, he proclaims her hair a masterpiece.

Arya graps at a few strands. Her once waist-length hair now grazes her jaw, the dark brown locks on the ground. Her hair had been wavy at the ends, but now it was mostly straight. _Good_, she thinks. The more different she looks, the better. She runs her hand through her hair and more strands fall to the floor. Gendry picks up a broom and sweeps them away, and he shrugs. Arya smiles at his thoughtfulness. Of course they'd go looking for where Gendry lived, and if they found the hair on the ground they'd know how to describe her to others.

With the hair discarded and Arya's hood back up, and Gendry holding their few belongings, they set off towards the docks as quietly as possible. In a few hours they'd be in the middle of the Narrow Sea, and then they'd be free in the Free Cities.

When they reach the ship headed towards Braavos, the Captain looks at them strangely.

"No," he says immediately.

"We have the coin," Arya says, holding out the money intended for the voyage.

"And yer names?" he asks, eying the golden dragons.

"Cat," Arya says unthinkingly, giving her mother's nickname. She looks at Gendry, "and he's the Bull."

"A cat and a bull, eh?" the Captain smirks, "welcome aboard."

Gendry looks at Arya nervously and she smiles reassuringly. They're going to be free.

* * *

**Next up: Aegon throws a fit and begrudgingly agrees to marry Margaery Tyrell on the condition that Arya is not found before the wedding, Lyanna tries to make sure Arya's wish of not being looked for is granted, Rhaegar still has people on the lookout for the youngest Stark girl, Sansa writes to Winterfell about Arya, Daenerys plans her trip across the Narrow Sea, and Cat and the Bull settle into their new lives.  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**I completely forgot that Gendry would have won quite a bit of money in the melee, so thanks to the reviewer who pointed that out. I really appreciate it.**

* * *

The Small Council meeting is in session and Aegon watches the proceedings, seemingly uninterested. His face is a careful mask of indifference, while on the inside his mind is racing. Prince Doran does not wish for him to marry Margaery, or Arya. Well, it's a good thing Arya's gone missing, isn't it?

"We have to find her," Rhaegar says, crossing his arms.

Jon looks up at his father, "You saw the note she left. She doesn't _want_ to be found."

"Or she's been kidnapped and the boy forced her hand to write the note," suggests Varys, the Master of Whispers.

"She's too strong-willed for that. She'd slit a man's throat before letting herself be taken," Jon shakes his head.

The Master of Coin, Lord Yronwood, looks to Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard, and they share a tired look.

"Perhaps we should send scouts to the harbor to see if anyone has seen them," Lord Royce, the Master of Ships, suggests.

Jon shakes his head, and Rhaegar nods in agreement with Royce.

"I will marry Lady Margaery," Aegon says, finally, not wishing for his father and brother to come to blows, "but only if Arya is not found by the date of the wedding. I wish to send scouts to the harbor as Lord Royce suggests, as well as on the King's Road. They could very well be on their way North."

Jon grits his teeth and Aegon spares his brother a glance. As much as he looks like Eddard Stark, Jon also resembles Rhaegar. He hates having the knowledge that Jon is Father's favorite.

He lets Jon get away with whatever he wants. Bringing Sansa to court, marrying her under their very noses, letting Arya do as she pleases without asking where she'd been spending all her time, letting her run away. Aegon frowns. The Stark women just do as they please. Lyanna, Sansa, Arya, all of them, and Rhaegar permits it. Aegon thinks that should he have married Sansa, he would've done the same. He would have let Sansa do whatever she wanted. He does not mislike Arya, exactly, but she's not Sansa. She looks too much like Lyanna, and every time he looks at Lyanna he thinks of his dead mother and the woman and son who replaced him, Elia, and Rhaenys in Rhaegar's heart. Arya would have been a decent friend to him, he thinks, had he not listened to Viserys for so long.

His uncle is a spiteful, hateful thing. He did not realize it until he heard Viserys telling some serving wench he was bedding about how the throne should belong to him. Aegon, naturally, goes to Daenerys to inquire about his uncle's words. She sighs and pats his shoulder pityingly. He means to start a fight between him and Jon, she tells him. Something akin to the Blackfyre Rebellions, so that Aegon and Jon will kill each other and Viserys will be free to sit the throne.

"He forgot about Rhaenys," Aegon says, feeling clever that he's figured out the fault in Viserys's plan, "and Sansa's child would be heir if anything should happen to myself and Jon."

"He'll marry Rhaenys to secure his position," Daenerys tells him like it's obvious, and Aegon blanches. He's been rough with his sister before, when his temper's gotten the better of him, but he's never wished to hurt her. Viserys would torment her, surely. He's rough and crass and thinks he's the gods' gift upon mankind. He's bedded countless servants, some of the maids, some of them not, and has a worse temper akin to grandfather's, if the stories are true, "as for Sansa…"

"He won't hurt her or an innocent child," Aegon is aghast at the thought. Surely his uncle wouldn't harm a pregnant woman, his own nephew's lady wife.

Daenerys shrugs, trying not to think of it.

"I won't let him. And Jon won't fight me," Aegon says. He knows he and his brother don't get along, but they would never come to blows in war. He's backed off of Sansa, his madness contained.

"Let me take Rhaenys with me," Dany says quietly, "she needs to get away."

Aegon nods, "I'll tell Father."

She smiles at him, and he knows now why people call her the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros. He smiles back.

His attention is redrawn to the meeting currently going on. He can think of his aunt's words and her pretty smiles later. Ser Barristan will get some men to follow the King's Road, whilst Lord Royce deals with the ship captains. They leave, leaving the royals, the Hand, and Varys in the room.

"We must say she's kidnapped," Varys says, "if she's found, we don't want her reputation to be ruined."

"No," Jon says immediately, "Robert Baratheon got it into his stupid head that my father kidnapped my mother, and started a bloody war over his wild imagination. I will not have that happen again."

Rhaegar nods, then purses his lips, thinking.

"What is it, Father?" Aegon asks.

"That boy at the tourney," he starts, "he's one of Robert Baratheon's bastards, I'm sure of it."

Aegon's eyes widen and Varys titters, "A dragon stole a wolf, and now a stag steals one back."

"I know him," Jon says slowly, sinking into his chair, "he's a smith. He fixed my armour one time. I sent Arya to his smithy when she wanted her sword altered."

Aegon lets out a hollow laugh. His brother pushed his betrothed into the arms of Robert fucking Baratheon's fucking son. Of fucking course.

Jon, for his part, looks uneasy. Aegon levels a stare at him and he looks up at Aegon, eyes apologetic. Aegon nods slightly. How could Jon have known? It's not his fault. Not everything is Jon's fault.

* * *

_ R_ (Days later)

Myrcella laughs, taking the peach Nym offers her. Cersei twitches, watching her daughter, her only daughter, play and laugh with Oberyn's bastards. _Sand Snakes_, they're called.

Obara is the eldest and Cersei thinks her an ugly thing. She has none of her father's beauty, which makes Cersei smirk. Then there's Nymeria, with her dark eyes and high cheekbones and pale skin and straight, black long hair. The girl's mother is a noblewoman, a further blow to Cersei. The girl's deadly, and Cersei wonders if she's put a blade in Myrcella's fruit.

Tyene sips her Dornish red, and Cersei scowls. She's fair and looks so sweet and pious, the daughter of a septa. She and Myrcella both have golden hair, and the pair look like they could be trueborn siblings. That makes Cersei's blood boil.

Luckily for her, Sarella isn't there. She's quiet and has dark skin and darker hair, and she's not there. _Good_, Cersei thinks. That one always pushes in where she doesn't belong.

Unluckily, all of Ellaria Sand's bastards are there, running around the constructed oasis, jumping into the pools of cerulean water. Elia, Obella, Dorea, and Loreza Sand play tag, the children that they are. She's a Lannister, surrounded by Sands, her poor daughter a Martell.

Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne, speaks animatedly with Ellaria. For her part, she tries to include Cersei whenever she can, to make her feel welcome. After all, it's been nearly twenty years she's been in Dorne. Cersei's once milky-white skin is freckled from the sun, and she looks and feels older than she is. At least Myrcella's skin tans instead of freckling, a small gift from her Dornish father. She's all Lannister, though, with golden hair and green eyes.

Arianne laughs at something and Cersei's mouth twitches into a fake smile. She knows she's a hostage. Her father is dead for turning on the Targaryens, and her Jaime, her sweet, lovely Jaime, a man of the Night's Watch. That is, if the cold hasn't killed him yet. Not like they'd tell her if he were dead. All Jaime did was kill the Mad King. Rhaegar, beautiful, sorrowful Rhaegar, gave him a chance to explain, to atone for his sins. All Jaime had to do was tell him the Mad King wished to burn King's Landing down, but instead her brother said, _I'd do it again._ Mercifully, he was spared an execution, but he was sent to the Wall. Same thing, in Cersei's mind. Worst of all, Tyrion has Casterly Rock. It should be hers. In Dorne succession is through the eldest, regardless of gender. Sometimes the Dornish had the right of things.

"I truly can't believe it," Arianne shakes her head.

"What?" Cersei asks shortly, now paying attention.

Ellaria smirks, "Aegon's fiancée has run off with Robert Baratheon's son."

Cersei takes a fast gulp of wine, trying to think. Robert has a son? Robert was a whore, it was known, so she shouldn't be so surprised. Wasn't Aegon engaged to that wolf-bitch of a queen's niece? They were all to be attending the wedding in a fortnight. That was when Quentyn Martell was supposed to try to get Daenerys's attention. Another Martell-Targaryen alliance surely couldn't hurt. Oberyn had spoken of introducing Myrcella to Prince Jon, much to Cersei's chargin. Then Doran had sent word that he is betrothed to Sansa Stark. Cersei took it as a slight. Targaryen men kept picking Stark women over her. She's certain Myrcella is more beautiful than any woman of the North.

"The gods must jape with us. Rhaegar _did_ run away with the man's betrothed," Arianne says with a small giggle, "perhaps old Lord Robert is taking revenge from beyond the grave."

She's a stupid girl, Cersei thinks. She was scarcely five years old during the Rebellion. The Princess of Dorne talks too much, the complete opposite of her reserved, calculating father. Cersei has a small respect for Doran Martell. He reminds her of her father; they have the same way of treating her as a pawn and a broodmare, nothing more. She's clever, but no one listens to her because she's not a man.

"It was a slight to my dearest aunt, but the King and my father assure me she knew of the King's affections for Lyanna Stark," Arianna sobers, then shrugs.

The Dornnish are strange enough to consent to Rhaegar kidnapping a teenage girl to try to produce another heir. Cersei scowls at the thought. It should have been her. If Rhaegar had married her instead of Elia, he'd have no need for Lyanna Stark. She would've given him all the heirs he wanted.

She looks to Myrcella, who is smiling and laughing, running after one of the younger children. At least Oberyn spares Myrcella from the cruel indifference he inflicts on his wife.

* * *

_ L_

Catelyn paces back and forth, her long red hair tumbling down her back. Sansa's wedded and with child, and she couldn't be happier for her. Her happiness is only stifled by the news that Arya has run away. Robb's first reaction was to ride out to King's Landing and yell at the royal family for letting her disappear, and then to tear Westeros apart to find her. Then they read the letter.

She and Ned received the letter, written in Lyanna's hand, and the Queen relayed what Arya had written to her. Arya had apologized, obviously, but she also insisted she loved this boy, some lowborn blacksmith. With that knowledge, Ned tells Robb to calm down and that if Arya wishes to be found, she'd return home. Robb's anger is only quelled by Dacey's comforting words and knowing Arya is likely not in harm's way, at least, she's not in danger from the boy she's run off with.

Ned's in the godswood, sitting in front of the Heart Tree, thinking. Catelyn goes to him and he looks up at her with tired grey eyes. Arya's eyes.

"We must do something," Catelyn says, sitting next to her husband in one graceful motion. He's already told Robb that riding to King's Landing would be folly, but they can't sit around and do nothing.

"You read what Lyanna wrote. She doesn't want us to do anything," Ned sighs.

"We never should have sent her. We should have listened to her when she said she did not wish to go," Catelyn closes her eyes.

Ned looks at her and she opens her eyes. She knows what he's to say. She's the one who said they had spoiled her too much, that she had to fulfil her duties as a lady and finally marry. Now she's run away and they'll never see her again.

"Maybe they'll come here," Ned says with a quiet hope.

"Then what? We turn her away. Make her go back to Aegon to be wed?" Catelyn asks.

"We welcome them. Arya, and the boy," Ned says. He'd never turn his kin away.

"Lyanna thinks that boy is Robert's son," Catelyn says with a small frown. Robert Baratheon was known for his whoring and blood-lust. Give him a brawl and a wench, and he was happy. She shudders to think that Robert's bastard could be with her daughter.

Ned fights a laugh. Robert would have been pleased about that, he thinks. He does not wish for history to repeat itself. If Aegon goes looking for them, and succeeds in finding them, Robert's son will be put to death and Arya will hate them all. Robert made the mistake of fancying himself in love with Lyanna, and believed she was kidnapped. At least Arya had the foresight to write that she's run off by her own choice.

Catelyn stares out at the trees, hands clasped in her lap. They never even had a proper goodbye. Arya had refused it.

"He's likely nothing like Robert, if that's what you're worried about," Ned tries to sound hopeful.

Catelyn inclines her head in a small nod. They know nothing of the boy who has stolen their daughter's heart, aside from the fact he's a bastard, and a smith. He has no family, just the blacksmith he apprenticed for and his family. No friends, nothing. The only solace they have is that Arya was not kidnapped. Is it really that reassuring, though, to know their daughter threw away her future for some boy she's only known for three months?

"Do you think they'll come North?" Catelyn asks. Ned was the one who had suggested it.

He remains quiet for a moment, "She belongs here, with us. I hope so."

"And we welcome the boy, too?" Catelyn asks, referring to Ned's earlier words.

"He's Robert's son, and Arya clearly cares for him. Yes, we welcome the boy, too."

* * *

_K I N G' G_

The Stormlord bows his head in reverence upon arriving to his meeting with the King.

"What is it you wish to ask of me, Lord Renly?" Rhaegar asks calmly.

"Your Grace, it has come to my attention that the mystery knight at the Prince's tourney is likely one of my nephews. By my count, he is my brother's eldest son. Robert had a daughter, too. She is currently at Storm's End," he starts.

"And?" Rhaegar raises a brow.

"Your Grace, I beg you to legitimize the boy, as I have no wife and no heirs of my own. I will gladly take him in, as I have his sister, and teach him how to run Storm's End, so he can be my heir," Renly requests. He's nearing thirty and unmarried, still. He knows he will never marry.

"Your _nephew_ has run off with the Lady Arya," Rhaegar says curtly, earning a startled look from Renly. Well, at least he knows the young man had nothing to do with their disappearance. They Red Keep has kept the information of Arya's disappearance from mostly everyone. The Martells know through Doran, and Lyanna wrote to her brother, obviously. The Tyrells know, as Aegon is to marry Margaery if Arya is not found in time. The rest of the court will be in for a surprise come the day of the wedding.

"Surely that cannot be true, Your Grace," Renly's brows knit together, and Rhaegar notes how much more pleasant Lord Renly's face is than Robert's was.

"It is. There are scouts looking for them as we speak," Rhaegar's voice comes out harder than he intended.

"Your Grace, I beg your pardon for his actions. Young love makes even the most level-headed of men prone to rash behavior, does it not?" Renly asks.

_Damn him_, Rhaegar thinks. Robert bloody Baratheon's son has done the same thing to his own son that Rhaegar did to him.

"If they are found, Lady Arya will marry the Prince as planned," Rhaegar says.

"And my nephew?" Renly asks about the boy he's not even met.

"He shall be punished for the crime of kidnapping," Rhaegar says, noting the glint of fear in Renly's eyes, "or he shall be sent to the Wall."

Renly bows his head and Rhaegar dismisses him. He doesn't think he's done with Renly Baratheon just yet. His is a stubborn lot.

* * *

_ A_

They arrive in Braavos, at Ragman's Harbor, with their few possessions and Arya's purse of coins, as well as the money Gendry had won in the tourney. They've got enough golden dragons and silver stags to last them quite a while. As all ships are subject to inspection, Gendry and Arya try to look as inconspicuous as possible. She doesn't look like much, not with her hair chopped off and her wearing boys clothing. Gendry is an imposing figure with his height and muscles, but no one says a thing to him.

They check in at an inn near the harbor, under the names of Cat and Toby. Arya raises her brow when Gendry gives that name, and he later explains it's what Mrs Mott calls Tobho, the master armourer. Arya thinks she likes the Bull better, but it's strange, she admits.

Arya quite likes the look of Braavos. It's a hundred tiny islands, linked together with bridges and canals. It's different. She does not like the fact that there are no trees, and that's one of the things she misses from home. Braavos is all rock and stone, with houses huddled closely together.

Quite a few people speak or at least understand the Common Tongue, but Arya insists that she'll learn Valyrian, as all nine Free Cities speak it. Gendry points out that the dialects must be different languages after so much time apart, and she looks at him in surprise.

"I'm not totally stupid, you know," Gendry pulls off his boots and lies down on the bed in their small room.

"I know," Arya says, turning pink. She didn't mean to insult him. Sometimes he'll stop talking, afraid of sounding ignorant, and she tries to be more careful of how she phrases things. He assures her it's fine, but she still feels guilty when he belittles himself. He's strong and kind and yes he's stubborn but he's also the best man she knows. Even though they've run away, he still thinks of himself as not being good enough, and she hates that. She also thinks she's not good enough for him. He deserves a proper family, a nice wife who'll give him a dozen children and care for them while he goes to work. He doesn't want that, though. He wants _her_, and that thought warms her heart.

She lies down next to him and he wraps his arm around her. She nuzzles his shoulder with her head.

"We're free," she whispers with a small smile.

"We are," he kisses the top of her head, "and I'm glad we're off that ship."

Arya chuckles. Gendry did not take kindly to the crashing waves. Had he been a woman, she'd have thought him afflicted with mother's stomach. Her smile fades when she thinks of Sansa, who'll start showing soon, and Jon and Dany and her parents and brothers. She will miss them, but she's done the right thing, she knows that.

She feels Gendry's breathing even out, and she huddles herself closer to him, drifting off to sleep as he had.

* * *

The first thing in the morning, Gendry goes out to look for work as a smith. He's not content to just have his winnings. He needs a job to provide for Arya. Arya, for her part, decides she wants a job, too. She's not a proper lady, anyway.

"And what does m'lady intend to do?" Gendry asks as they take the narrow, winding streets.

"I could be a bravo. I can beat them all," Arya sticks her chin up.

"You'd have no one left to fight by week's end," Gendry says. He's not teasing, he's just voicing his honest opinion.

Arya nods at the likelihood of that. What _can_ she do? Aside from swordfighting and smart-mouthing, she has no skills. She can't sew neatly and embroider like Sansa can, so being a seamstress is out of the question. All she's really good at is talking and making people angry.

"Maybe you could teach kids how to sword fight?" Gendry suggests.

They take a steep left, climbing up the uneven steps to cross a bridge to get to the other side of the lagoon. She thinks of Syrio Forel, the First Sword of Braavos who had been her instructor. Perhaps if she finds the academy or school where he trained, she can do something.

Gendry had searched for employment near Ragman's Harbor, but they are instead told to head towards Purple Harbor where most of the locals live.

The smith they find speaks in short and rough sentences in the Common Tongue. He looks Gendry up and down, and hands him the tools he needs to show him what he can do.

Arya watches as Gendry sets to work, and the smith looks pleased with the result—a simple breastplate.

"Work tomorrow. Eight clock," the Braavosi man says.

Gendry smiles and thanks him, and Arya grabs his hand as they leave. She drags him down the street, grinning.

* * *

It's all too easy. Something is going to destroy her happiness, she fears. Days after arriving in Braavos, they settle their stories. Arya is Cat, a miller's daughter from the Vale. Gendry is Toby, a smith's apprentice from the same region.

"I know nothing about the Vale. I spent my entire life in King's Landing," Gendry says as they lie in bed late at night.

"No one will ask. The Braavosi certainly don't care," Arya says reassuringly.

They need to find a place to live, a proper home. The area they're in now is full of foreigners and Westerosi, and it's quite a poor area, too. She's afraid someone will recognize them if they stay here. Then again, they'd stick out like sore thumbs in the Braavosi areas.

Gendry works at the smithy, making swords for the extravagant bravos who duel each other for pleasure and coin, and for the favours of ladies and courtesans alike. The Braavosi man who owns the forge is getting on in years, and lets Gendry handle most of the work. The pay isn't much, but it's enough.

Tomorrow Arya will try to locate where Syrio Forel had trained. She thanks the old gods that Jon had the foresight to hire Syrio when he learned she would be going to King's Landing. She smiles, curling next to Gendry. Jon had been the one to tell her to go to the smithy. It was because of Jon she's here now. She considers writing him a letter to thank him, but figures it could be intercepted and her location found. She decides against a letter. She'll thank him in person once Aegon is wed and King Rhaegar can't force her to do anything.

Gendry plays with her hair absentmindedly. He's tired from work, because the old man has a lot of commissions, but he's happy. He's with Arya and that's all that matters. He's never had a family until now. If she'll allow it, they'll be wed, then no one can tear them apart.

* * *

_ ' G_

The royal wedding is in three days, and Arya has not yet been found. Aegon is sure that the knights of the Reach and Highgarden aren't looking as hard as they should. He's also sure some of his father's own men are doing the same; Arya Stark is a liability as future queen due to her wild and unpredictable nature. Margaery Tyrell has already charmed the courtiers and smallfolk alike, even going so far as visiting the orphanage with Rhaenys. Aegon sighs as he looks to Margaery Tyrell. She really is quite beautiful, so he can't complain too much.

Margaery and Loras, her brother, are conversing with Renly Baratheon. According to Rhaegar, the oaf who ran off with Arya is Renly's nephew, one of old Robert's bastards.

Daenerys links her arm with his and they take a turn about the garden. Aegon smiles appreciatively at his aunt.

"She'll make a fine queen and good wife, I'm sure," Dany tries to assuage his worries.

"Can't I just marry you?" Aegon asks, pouting slightly. He grew up thinking he'd marry Daenerys. Marrying Rhaenys never crossed his mind. She's his sister, but Daenerys is his aunt. He frowns. He knows the Targaryen ways of old are baffling to most Westerosi, what with brothers marrying sisters. They say it's the union of brothers and sisters that tainted the blood to make some Targaryen kings mad. He shall see that an end is put to that particular custom.

He thinks of Jon and Sansa. If cousins are another matter entirely, then why shouldn't aunt and nephew be as well?

Dany laughs and Aegon does too, drawing the attention of the Tyrells and the Baratheon. He looks at Daenerys curiously, and Aegon draws his aunt closer. He's had enough of Baratheons stealing away women he cares about. He may not love Arya, but she could have been a friend to him, in time.

"Worry not, nephew. I'll be leaving by the end of the week," Daenerys soothes.

"With Rhae?" Aegon says.

"With Rhae," Dany nods. She and Aegon spoke to Rhaegar in a joint effort, and he acquiesced to the journey. Daenerys and Rhaenys shall have a member of the Kingsguard assigned to each of them, for safety reasons, as well as having some Targaryen knights with them.

Lord Varys has arranged for their journey to Pentos. They shall be greeted by Magister Illyrio Mopatis, a man Varys claims is a close friend of his. Daenerys doubts that Varys has close friends. He only has little birds.

"Do you think you might find Arya in Pentos?" Aegon asks quietly.

Daenerys looks thoughtful, "If the gods are kind, then yes."

She looks to her nephew, and bites her lip.

"If I do find her, I will not force her to return," she warns as politely as possible.

Aegon thinks for a moment, then speaks, "I wish her happiness. I just want to know she's safe, to calm Sansa and Jon's nerves."

Daenerys smiles and pulls her nephew closer to her.

"I do believe you've started to care about that girl," she says sadly.

"I care about her for Jon's sake, and Sansa's," Aegon says stiffly.

Dany nods, not quite believing him, but drops the topic.

* * *

**Up next: A royal wedding, a trip across the Narrow Sea, and a man determined to find his nephew.**


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm sorry for the wait, but classes have started up again. Thank you to the reviewer who pointed out that marriages among cousins are acceptable in Westeros, here it's more a taboo since they were raised together, if that makes sense. Thank you for reading/reviewing, etc. Very brief smut towards the end.  
**

* * *

As soon as they step out of the carriage, Sansa runs to her mother, throwing her arms around her in a hug. Lyanna does the same, rushing to her older brother immediately.

They boys laugh and tackle an unsuspecting Jon, and he ruffles their hair. They've gotten so big. Bran is nearly his height and Rickon looks just like Robb when he was that age.

Once Lyanna turns her attention to Bran and Rickon, Sansa launches herself at her father. Catelyn walks up to Jon with a small smile.

"Lady Stark," Jon inclines his head nervously.

"Come here, Jon," she opens her arms and envelops him in a hug.

Jon hugs back, letting out a sigh of relief. As a child, all he'd wanted was Catelyn and Ned to love him like one of their own. It's why he was so uncomfortable with his feelings for Sansa at the beginning. They were raised in the same household, practically as siblings.

"The halls of Winterfell aren't the same without you. Without either of you," Catelyn pulls away and gives her son in-law and nephew an once-over. It's been near three years since she last saw him, and he looks like Ned. He looks like Brandon.

Sansa pulls away from Ned, and he looks at his nephew with a large grin. He's all Stark, and he can't help but be a bit proud of the man Jon's grown to become.

Lyanna showers attention on Rickon and Bran, and takes their hands, leading them out of the main courtyard and into the Red Keep.

Sansa links her arm with Catelyn, and Jon and Ned walk inside side by side.

"How does the babe fare?" Catelyn asks quietly.

Sansa smiles brightly, "I think I felt him kick just yesterday."

She's not showing yet, and it's a good thing, too, lest the courtiers talk. A firstborn who is birthed a month or two early isn't completely unusual, is it?

The procession of Starks enters the Great Hall, and Rhaegar stands from the Iron Throne, taking steps down to greet his wife's family. His heart churns at the sight of Ned and Jon standing next to each other. He's quite possessive. Jon is his son, not the honorable Lord Stark's.

Aegon schools his features into that of passivity and examines the Starks. He vaguely remembers them from the royal family's visit to Winterfell all those years ago. The boys take after Lady Stark, Sansa, too. The youngest and Sansa have red hair and blue eyes, while the older boy has auburn hair. Lyanna and Lord Stark look like they could have been twins, and Aegon notes that Jon and Arya could have passed as siblings. Arya. His betrothed. Sometimes he if she wouldn't have run off if only he'd been kinder.

The Starks bow in front of Rhaegar and Aegon, and Rhaegar tells them to rise, for they are family. Rhaenys and Daenerys watch with small smiles and step forward to greet Sansa's family. Viserys looks on, bored.

Bran looks at Daenerys and Rhaenys, as if dazed. Jon glares at his cousin and good-brother, half teasing and half serious.

Everyone exchange pleasantries for a few minutes before Sansa and a few handmaidens show the Stark family their quarters for the next few days.

* * *

Sansa does not leave her family's side. Jon smiles as Sansa sits next to Catelyn, grinning from ear to ear. He feels guilty, having whisked her away from Winterfell, her home. Once Aegon is wed, and once he and Sansa are married in the Sept, perhaps they could return to Winterfell. He feels more welcome in the frigid cold of the North with Winterfell's hard walls and summer snows than in King's Landing. He doubts Father will let them leave, and Mother will be distraught. He sighs, and returns to his conversation with Uncle Ned. He and Sansa sit below the royal dais, with the Starks, much to Rhaegar's chagrin.

They are having a feast in the Great Hall, surrounded by courtiers and lords and ladies from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms who have come to attend the wedding. They all know now that Aegon will be marrying Margaery, but no one knows that Arya's run away. The official story Doran Martell has put out is that Aegon and Arya simply were not compatible, and that she left for Winterfell two weeks ago with a small guard, so that her presence would not potentially disturb the wedding.

The Martells, Tyrells, Starks, and Targaryens know this is a load of bull. Yet Aegon is seated next to Margaery and they have bright smiles on their faces. How much of it is genuine and how much of it is a show, no one knows.

Viserys sulks all throughout the feast, ignoring the fluttering lashes one of Margaery's cousins is bestowing on him.

The Martells had arrived days before the Starks, and Myrcella sits next to Viserys uncomfortably, while Quentyn speaks to Daenerys. Trystane has remained in Sunspear with the Sand Snakes, allowing Arianne to attend the wedding festivities. The family of the Hand of the King sits with the royals, and the Dornish fashion themselves as princes and princesses, anyway. They belong up there, above the Starks, at least in Cersei's mind.

Cersei Martell looks as though she's swallowed a lemon, sitting in a place of honor (as she is part of the Hand's family now). Her husband sits next to her, and Ellaria sits on his other side. Prince Doran sits closer to the King, his illness becoming more and more apparent as he ages.

Lady Allyria Dayne of Starfall is in attendance, with her betrothed, Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven. Rhaegar greets her warmly, eyes apologetic. Allyria's sister Ashara had been one of Elia's companions before the Rebellion, and her brother Arthur had been one of his closest friends. Ashara Dayne had thrown herself from a tower, into the sea, upon learning of her brother's death.

Lord Stark notices the glares he has been receiving from the dark haired, violet-eyed girl. She looks just like Ashara, and his heart constricts. He'd been the one to kill Ser Arthur Dayne at the Tower of Joy. How was he to know Lyanna was being guarded for her own protection? That she had left of her own accord? He regrets the bloodshed, but he had to find his sister. He doesn't glare at Rhaegar all the time, now does he? The Mad King had his father and brother killed for daring to want Lyanna back.

He feels Catelyn stiffen beside him when she notices the hateful look of the young Dornish woman. There had been rumors going around years and years ago that Ashara Dayne had thrown herself to her death because she was in love with Ned. Ned assured her it's not true, that he simply danced with her once and they spoke of Brandon. Catelyn had frowned. Brandon was betrothed to her at the time he met Ashara. Benjen let it slip once that Brandon Stark and Robert Baratheon were not so different, and Catelyn realized what had transpired. Grieving the loss of her brother and to a lesser extent, Brandon, Ashara had killed herself.

The dancing starts, and Oberyn and his paramour, Ellaria Sand, take to the floor, as do Lyanna and Rhaegar.

Cersei has a small smile on her face. She's used to these slights. Ellaria looks over the golden haired woman and frowns in an attempted apology. Cersei tries not to snort in derision. When Oberyn had first brought the Dornish whore to Sunspear, she had tried to be a friend to Cersei. Cersei Lannister of Casterly Rock, friends with a lowborn whore, hah! Cersei had smiled sweetly and told her that she does not care what she and Oberyn do, for none of her children will ever get in the way of Myrcella's legitimacy. Doran has three children, and after them, Oberyn is the heir to the throne. Should anything happen to Doran, Arianne, Quentyn, Trystane, and Oberyn, then Myrcella could be a proper Princess. Cersei doubts that will ever happen. She's surprised that Arianne's not yet gone to speak to Viserys, the bored looking prince. He looks like Rhaegar, and Cersei recalls her crush on the now-king.

Myrcella looks exceedingly uncomfortable with Viserys, and Arianne saves the day by asking the prince to dance. He looks surprised at her forwardness, and smirks. Arianne narrows her eyes; his smirk reminds her of Darkstar.

"It would be my pleasure, princess," Viserys stands and leads her to the dance floor.

Myrcella looks at ease, now.

Jon and Sansa have joined in the dancing, and Cersei openly stares at them, then looks to Lord and Lady Stark. Gods, the boy must be strange, being engaged to a cousin was raised with as a sibling. It's as if they were Lord and Lady Stark twenty years ago. She smirks, remembering her childhood with Jaime. She's certain the prince and his cousin had played at kissing as children, much like she and Jaime had. It's perfectly alright for them, he's a Targaryen, but not for a Lannister. Cersei's smirk fades. Jaime.

Her gaze flits over the grand hall and her expression turns sour once more. She did not know her youngest brother would be in attendance. Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock. It should've been hers, or at least Jaime's, she thinks. The imp waddles forward, seemingly intent on speaking to her.

"My sweet sister," he greets with a smile.

"Tyrion," she says flatly.

He chuckles, and she finds him uglier than before.

"Care to dance?" he asks, teasing.

She glares. How dare he mock her? She very well knows she means little to her husband, but her brother could at least show her some compassion.

"No," she replies.

"Ever the ice queen, Cersei. At least you know you're still the prettiest woman in the room," he says.

She smiles a bit at that, and laughs. Tyrion laughs, too.

"I'm certainly a better sight than you," she smirks.

Tyrion smiles, "Well, I must find another lady to dance with."

He moves to leave, and Cersei stops him.

"Do you have any news?" she asks quietly.

"He is cold, and complains of Lord Commander Mormont regularly, and drinks with Benjen Stark," Tyrion answers.

Cersei lets out a breath of relief and nods in genuine thanks.

He saunters off and Cersei's takes a deep breath. She forgets that her brother isn't so horrible all the time. Her attention is drawn to the dance floor once again, and she watches Prince Jon step on his dainty wife's feet.

Had Sansa Stark not entered the picture, Prince Jon would be dancing with Myrcella by now. Sansa is pretty, but even simple farmer's daughters are pretty when they're that young. Myrcella is more beautiful, Cersei is sure. She snorts when the prince treads on Lady Sansa's feet again, making the poor girl grimace briefly. For her part, Sansa smiles quickly and leads the way.

So Cersei sits and watches and scowls when one of the Stark boys scoots over to the table adjacent from the Stark table to talk to Myrcella, whose mood immediately brightens.

Tyrion ambles up to the table, and Myrcella smiles upon seeing her uncle, and excuses herself to dance with him. Cersei smiles to herself. Tyrion's not so useless at times.

Daenerys is asked to dance by Quentyn, but she shakes her head politely, and Rhaenys ends up dancing with her cousin instead. They are nearly of an age, a few months separating their births. Arianne Martell often recalls how Rhaenys had smiled brightly when she had held her for the first time almost twenty four years ago.

"You should visit Sunspear sometime, I'm sure father and King Rhaegar will allow it," Quentyn says politely. He and his cousin aren't close, but they're friendly. Quentyn and Arianne and later, Trystane, all would visit King's Landing every year for a few months when they were younger, to spend time with their father and their cousins.

"Aunt Daenerys and I will be traveling in a few days. Perhaps we shall stop in Dorne before crossing the Narrow Sea," Rhaenys says conversationally.

Quentyn's eyes brighten, though he looks surprised, "You and your aunt can join our party when we return home. It's the most logical course of action."

"I will speak to Father about it," Rhaenys smiles, and Quentyn smiles back. She looks like a Martell, he decides. She's got tan skin and dark hair, but there's a hint of purple in her eyes.

Aegon and Margaery glide onto the dance floor, and Rhaenys raises a brow at her brother. He never dances, but she supposes Margaery Tyrell has her ways of making him agree.

Margaery is a marvelous dancer, and Aegon can't help but smile as he leads her across the floor. Mayhaps he should thank the mystery knight for whisking Arya away, after all.

A few tables away, Loras Tyrell and Renly Baratheon talk, sending smiles to the young ladies in attendance of the feast. Renly excuses himself and walks towards the table just below the royal dais.

"Lord Stark?" he starts slowly, a bit nervously.

Ned looks up from his plate of food and his mouth opens.

"Gods be good," he mutters, then regains his composure.

"My name is Renly, Lord Stark, Renly Baratheon of Storm's End. I know you and my brother were good friends, and I thought I might introduce myself," Renly says politely.

"Yes, of course. It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Renly. You look so much like Robert," Ned shakes the younger man's hand.

"I know a young man who looks more like Robert than myself, Lord Stark," Renly says quietly.

Ned immediately gathers his meaning, and Catelyn notices, too. She looks up, and Renly takes her hand.

"Lady Stark, you are the loveliest woman in the room," Renly says in greeting.

"Thank you, Lord Renly," she narrows her eyes at the charming, handsome man. If the boy Arya is with is anything like Renly, she's not surprised even her usually indifferent daughter was drawn in by his charms.

"If I may speak with you both, after the wedding of course, I would greatly appreciate it," Renly says kindly, "I have much to discuss."

"Yes, of course," Ned nods.

Renly inclines his head and makes his way back to Loras Tyrell.

Catelyn looks at Ned warily.

"Come, love, let's dance," he says, standing slowly.

She looks at him, surprised, then smiles.

* * *

The Great Sept of Baelor is magnificent. It's stunning, with the colors of the stained glass windows dancing in the light on the walls. Sansa and Jon sit with their hands clasped together, surrounded by their families. Aegon stands up at the aisle with the High Septon, waiting for Margaery.

He wears black and red, a Targaryen cloak waiting nearby. Aegon is beautiful, like Rhaegar but with darker skin and a sharper nose. It makes him more beautiful than his father, most of the ladies would agree.

Rhaenys looks like she's about to cry from happiness, and the ceremony hasn't even started yet. Daenerys smiles serenely, knowing it's a good thing poor Arya wasn't found. The girl would probably run out of the Sept before the end of the ceremony in an attempt to escape.

The doors to the Sept open, and Margaery arrives, arm linked with her father's. She wears a yellow-golden colored dress that reflects the light in the Sept, a maiden cloak with the Tyrell sigil, a cloak of green with a yellow rose embroidered on it. Her long brown hair curls at the ends, and she has a small, crooked smile on her face. She truly is the rose of Highgarden.

Mace leaves his daughter once they reach the High Septon and Aegon. Aegon smiles, almost shyly, and Margaery grins.

The ceremony goes as most ceremonies do, there's nothing eventful about it. Finally, Aegon rids Margaery of her maiden cloak and sweeps the Targaryen cloak over her shoulders, the red and black of the cloak having a pretty effect with the gold dress.

Aegon takes Margaery's hand, and the assembled guests clap enthusiastically. The Tyrells are the wealthiest House in Westeros, second only to the Iron Throne. It's a far better match than what Aegon had wanted.

* * *

The Great Hall is fashioned into a banquet hall, fit for the wedding of the heir to the Iron Throne. There are candles that appear to be suspended mid-air, and ornate decorations all over the grand room. There are roses at every table, freshly picked or brought in from the Reach.

Aegon and Margaery sit at the place of honor, high at the dais, Rhaegar and Lyanna to one side, Lord and Lady Tyrell to the other.

Rhaegar toasts the newlyweds, and the dancing and feasting begin. Aegon and Margaery glide across the dance floor gracefully, and couples begin to join them.

"I apologize if I tread on your feet, my lady," Aegon says politely.

Margaery smiles, "Call me Margaery, my lord, you are my husband now. I don't think we need such formalities."

"Of course, Margaery. You may call me Aegon," he replies.

She grins crookedly, holding onto her new husband tighter.

Sansa practically drags Jon to dance, and he sighs.

"You're going to do this in two days, aren't you?" he asks his wife.

"It's going to be our wedding day. Of course I am," Sansa scoffs, leading her husband around.

"We're already wed," Jon reminds her quietly, and she smiles. She doesn't need to be reminded, but she likes the reminders.

"I know," she squeezes his hand.

Rickon is running about the hall in a frenzy, playing with the other children. He's half wolf, that one. He nearly runs into Lord Tarly's son, Dickon, and the older boy laughs as Rickon scurries away.

Ellaria smiles, thinking he'd get on well with her daughters. They were wild ones, too. Cersei and Oberyn are actually dancing together, trying to put on a happy front. Ellaria's dark eyes take in the scene. Myrcella dances with a bumbling Stark boy, Bran. Allyria and Beric are laughing and drinking, the King and Queen are conversing with the Tyrells, Margaery and Aegon dance, Garlan Tyrell is speaking to Arianne, trying to charm her, and Loras Tyrell and Renly Baratheon seem to be in a competition to see which of them could dance with the most ladies that night, though they throw looks to each other often. Ellaria knows what those looks mean, even if the rest of the attendants of the wedding feast don't.

Daenerys takes Renly's offered hand, and the two begin to dance. Rhaegar's eyes narrow when he notices who his sister's dance partner is. Bloody Baratheons.

"I do believe you're the best dancer in attendance tonight, my lord," Daenerys compliments.

"Why thank you, Princess. It's not difficult when dancing with a lady as lovely as yourself," Renly says smoothly.

Dany laughs. He's charming, she'll give him that. Too charming, if she's honest with herself.

"I have heard you are taking in your nieces and nephews to care for," she says conversationally.

"Aye, Princess. My late brother has left quite a few children in his wake. I've discovered two girls, thus far. The eldest is with me, the younger one is still thinking of joining us," Renly answers carefully. He does not know how much the young princess knows, and he's not keen on letting anything slip before he speaks to Lord Stark.

"That's very honorable of you," Daenerys offers.

"My House was wiped out during the war, Princess. It was mine own brother's folly, I know, but I would like to find my kin," he shrugs.

"Surely you can marry a fine lady and repopulate your House," Dany says with a small smile.

"I am an old man, my lady," Renly says self-deprecatingly.

Dany scoffs. He's scarcely five years older than Aegon, making him six years older than her. Aegon was a babe at the breast and Rhaenys not even four during the Rebellion, and Dany had been born at the end of it all. She shudders to think Rhaenys can remember Elia's murder.

Renly senses her discomfort, and his blue eyes look apologetic.

"I am sorry for the pain my brother's actions caused your family," he says sincerely.

"It is in the past now, my lord. Let us think upon happier things," Daenerys smiles at him, and they continue their dance.

Soon it's time for the bedding ceremony and the men lift Margaery away from Aegon, and the women circle around Aegon, stripping him of his finery.

Margaery, for her part, smiles and japes with the men undressing her. Loras and Garlan move quickly, leaving her in her shift as well as blocking the view the others have of her. They take her to the chambers speedily, and Garlan presses a kiss to her forehead and tells her to be brave while Loras only winks before they pass by the group of women pushing Aegon down the corridor, the Prince wearing only his small clothes.

Daenerys, Rhaenys, Jon, Sansa, the King and Queen, as well as the parents of the bride sit in the Great Hall. Cersei had not allowed Myrcella to participate in the ceremony, and so she sits with Quentyn and her mother, along with Doran and Oberyn and Ellaria. They think themselves too old for that sort of thing. Catelyn had held Bran back, much to the boy's relief, and Rickon hadn't been interested one bit.

Jon scowls, realizing that those men will have their hands on Sansa in two days' time. Sansa notices his sudden sour disposition and squeezes his hand.

"There'll be no bedding," he mutters.

Sansa runs her thumb over the back of his hand and murmurs in agreement, allowing him to relax. No one is going to touch her husband.

* * *

The next morning, the blood-stained bed sheet is presented, confirming Margaery's status as a maid before she was wed to Aegon. She blushes prettily, and Sansa's hand grips Jon's in sudden panic. She'd forgotten about that bit. It's now Jon's turn to squeeze her hand. The servants already think she's no longer a maid, and the courtiers have their suspicions, too. He already has a plan to take care of that.

* * *

After breakfast, Renly enters the solar Ned has been using during his stay in the Red Keep.

"What is it you wish to speak of, Lord Renly?" Ned asks.

Catelyn sits across the room, seemingly absorbed in her needlework, but she listens attentively.

"Of my nephew, Lord Stark," Renly states plainly.

"Nephew?" Ned asks.

Renly's brow furrows. Surely he knows his daughter has run off with one of Robert's bastards.

"Yes. I was at the tourney. I saw the mystery knight. Why, were I younger or he older we could pass at twins, my lord," Renly starts to explain.

"And what would you have me do with this information?" Ned asks. He's tired, and old, far too old, for this.

Renly clears his throat, "I wish to find them. My nephew and your daughter. I've been finding Robert's children, taking them in. So far I've found two of his daughters. By my count this boy is the eldest son. I want him to be my heir."

Catelyn sucks in a deep breath and her eyes meet Ned's across the room.

"You want this boy—"

"Gendry," Renly interjects, "that's his name."

"You want _Gendry_ to inherit Storm's End?" he raises a brow.

"Yes, my lord. I've already spoken to the King, but that was before the wedding and he seemed intent on punishing him and marrying your daughter to Aegon anyway. But Aegon is wed now, so the threat of that no longer looms over their heads. If we join forces, we can find them," Renly says.

"And what of Arya?" Ned narrows his eyes.

"I mean no disrespect, my lord, but as she's run away she'll be seen as ruined to everyone else. If you'll allow it, I'd like to join Houses. My nephew and your daughter. All Robert had ever wanted was to join House Baratheon and House Stark," Renly tries to smile.

"Your brother started a war for a woman and sired a number of bastards, while at war to get his betrothed back," Catelyn says sharply.

Renly turns to her, eyes apologetic.

"I cannot apologize enough for what my brother's actions put the realm through, but I beseech you, I ask you both, to help me find them," Renly says, letting out a breath.

"Do you mean to start a war, Lord Renly?" Catelyn asks.

"I mean to name an heir to Storm's End, my lady," Renly replies.

"Who is to say Aegon won't set Margaery aside and want Arya if they're found?" Ned asks.

"Were you at the feast? The boy is besotted with his new bride," Renly brushes off Ned's concern.

"What concerns me is my daughter's safety," Catelyn says, striding over to Ned. She places a hand on his shoulder.

"I give you my word, no harm shall come to her. She will be under my protection if I find them," Renly promises.

"We will speak of this later, Lord Renly. For now you have my agreement that the children must be found," Ned says finally, and Renly breathes a sigh of relief.

* * *

BRAAVOS

Arya wrinkles her nose, cutting the fish's head off. She'd gone into the market and bought fish for dinner, and now she's to clean it and cook it. She and Gendry have found a place to live, the third floor of a tall building between Ragman's Harbor and Purple Harbor. They're far enough from the foreigners' bay that no Westerosi will ever think to look for them here.

It's a small flat, with one room with a bed, and a slightly larger room with a divan and table, a kitchen off to the side in an adjoining room. They bought plates and knives and goblets from a merchant, using up a bit of their money.

Potatoes boil in a pot and Arya skins the fish before sticking it in a pan, covering it with a lid. Cooking's not so difficult, she finds.

She sighs and wipes her hands clean of the fish. Gendry would be home soon, thank the gods. She's so bored at home. She found the training academy where Syrio had once learned the water dance, but the guard laughed at her and sent her on her way. She scowls at the memory. She'll show them, she'll show them all.

The door opens and she whips around to see Gendry come through, covered in soot. She smiles at him and smiles back tiredly.

"There's water in the tub," she says as a greeting and walks over to him. She begins to unlace his trousers and moves his shirt up, pulling it off of him.

"Well that's a welcoming I can get used to," Gendry smiles at her.

She snorts and pushes him towards their room, "I smell like fish."

"A pretty fish, though," he retorts, earning a smack on the shoulder.

She undresses him and pushes him into the cooling water. It had been warm, but he's late.

"Will m'lady be joining me?" he asks, blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

"The food," Arya starts to protest.

"The food will be fine," Gendry leans forward and grabs her wrist.

She smirks and shimmies out of her clothes and small clothes quickly, pressing herself next to him in the small metal tub.

Arya brushes her nose against his, and he kisses her. He misses her throughout the day. Sometimes she comes to watch him work, sitting silently, but sometimes she goes off trying to find a job of her own. He knows she's still mad that the guards laughed her out of the training yards, and he wonders if she'll grow to hate him for whisking her away, never mind the fact that she wanted to leave King's Landing behind.

His worries are pushed away when she settles herself on his lap and deepens the kiss, pulling at his hair. He inches his hands down her back, cupping her arse and presses her closer to him. She lips smile against him for a moment before she kisses his neck and his eyes roll back.

"Gods," he grunts. Her hips are already moving against his and she's so close but so far from where he needs her to be.

She lifts herself off of him and shifts slightly and he grips her hips before she sinks onto him.

"Arya," he mumbles, leaning his head back against the tub. She lets out a small groan and digs her nails onto his shoulders.

Her attention is taken away from Gendry when she smells something burning.

"Seven hells," she scrambles off of Gendry and out of the tub. She throws on her too-large shirt and runs to the kitchen, leaving Gendry to laugh hysterically.

"This is your fault," she yells from the other room, lifting the burnt fish off of the heat.

Gendry, now no longer covered in soot and dirt, and now wearing breeches, walks into the kitchen to face Arya's wrath.

"It was perfectly good fish," she growls.

"I'm sure it was," he says, backing away slowly.

She looks more wolf than girl now, and she sets the pan of fish onto the table. She advances forward, baring her teeth. _Definitely more wolf than girl_, Gendry thinks.

She launches herself at him and he crashes onto the ground. She sits on him, glaring.

"I'm sorry," Gendry tries not to laugh at her expression.

She growls again and punches him half-heartedly.

"I'll go out to the bakery and get lemon cakes, how's that?" Gendry asks, trying to calm her.

"Lemon cakes," Arya says slowly, then her eyes widen, "lemon cakes!"

"I just said that," Gendry says, concerned.

"No, no. Tomorrow is supposed to be Sansa and Jon's wedding. A proper wedding," she says, looking forlorn.

He doesn't ask why lemon cakes reminded her of this because she explains anyway.

"All Sansa could eat when she found out she was having a baby were lemon cakes," she shrugs, a sad smile crossing her face.

"You wish you were there?" Gendry sits up and Arya curls herself onto his lap, her anger forgotten.

"Just for the wedding, or to visit. With you, obviously," she admits.

He hugs her close, "I don't think I'd be a welcome guest at the Prince's wedding."

"Sansa and Jon would let you go," Arya says fiercely.

"And the king and queen?" he asks softly. He knows his place. He's just some bastard.

"I don't care what they think," she says harshly. She's still upset with her aunt, but is thankful to her for not sending out a search party. She hates Rhaegar and Viserys, and still dislikes Aegon. She quite likes Daenerys and Rhaenys, though.

"Your parents—"

"Would get over it. Once they see how hardworking and good you are, they'll like you. They'd probably like you more than some stupid lordling," she insists.

He merely kisses the top of her head and pulls her closer.

* * *

**Up next: Another wedding, a plea to return North, and plans to travel across the Narrow Sea are set.  
**


	9. Chapter 9

**To the anonymous reviewer who called this a 'f-ed' up retelling of Robert's Rebellion' I'd like to kindly point out that this is an AU. Robert wasn't sentenced to death, he was killed at the Trident instead of Rhaegar, which I'm pretty sure was mentioned in one of the chapters (four or five, I think). If not, my apologies. Ned obviously feels horrible about the deaths of his brother, father, and best friend, and Aerys truly was mad, but it's been twenty years. He's worked past that and tries to support his sister however he can, and that support means being civil with Rhaegar.**

**I also made a mistake in mentioning 'Joffrey Martell' in chapter 5. There's no Joffrey, just Myrcella. Sorry! I'm also very sorry for the wait, but classes have gotten to be very demanding early this semester.  
**

* * *

_KING'S LANDING_

Sansa fidgets, staring at herself in the mirror. Her hair is half up in intricate braids, with the rest in curls down to her waist. Catelyn laces up Sansa's dress, a crisp Stark white with grey embellishments at the wide sleeves. The dress skirts over her slightly rounded stomach, hiding her pregnancy from view.

"You look beautiful," Catelyn says, knotting the last tie.

"Really?" Sansa chews on her lip.

Catelyn smiles and squeezes her daughter's shoulder, "You're already married, you've nothing to worry about."

"The Targaryens keep the Seven. What if he changes his mind?" Sansa asks nervously. Lyanna and Jon keep to the old gods, but the king and his other children don't.

Catelyn shakes her head, amused, and moves to sit Sansa down on the bed.

"Jon has been in love with you for ages, sweetling. You made a child together," Catelyn says with a small smile.

Sansa smiles back, a bit hesitantly. She feels a bout of nausea, but manages to hold it back. Catelyn runs her fingers through Sansa's red curls, making sure they're just right.

"I wish Robb were here. And Arya," she says quietly.

Carelyn nods and pats Sansa on the shoulder.

"It's time, dear."

* * *

The Great Sept of Baelor is splendid, as it was for Aegon's wedding. Jon wears black with just a hint of red on his cuffs and stands next to the Septon. He's shaved for the occasion, mostly at Daenerys's insistence. His aunt sits with his sister, and his parents, who are essentially babysitting Rickon and Bran. Viserys sits with Arianne and the Martells, and Lady Cersei looks extremely unenthused about the ceremony. Rhaenys sits next to Lyanna, Bran on her other side, and Rickon next to him. Daenerys sits at the aisle seat to keep Rickon from running off.

Catelyn walks in quietly, not making a fuss at all. Daenerys stands to switch seats with Rickon, Catelyn takes the aisle seat. Daenerys sits back down and tosses her long silver hair over her shoulder.

"How is she?" Dany asks in a whisper, leaning behind Rickon to speak to Cat.

"Nervous, but fine," Catelyn answers with a small smile.

The doors to the Sept open, and Sansa walks down the steps, smiling nervously. Her grip around Ned's arm tightens, and he smiles at his daughter. Her maiden cloak, white with a direwolf, trails behind her.

She looks up after reaching the bottom step and her eyes meet Jon's. He looks younger, with his beard shaved, but he's still her Jon. His eyes light up the instant he sees her, and a smile crosses his face. She smiles back, practically beaming. The uneasiness she felt moments ago dissipates the closer she gets to Jon.

Ned lets go of her and kisses her on the forehead, nods at Jon, and makes his way to sit next to Cat.

The Septon speaks, but neither Sansa nor Jon pay him much notice. Their eyes are trained on each other, and they parrot the words the Septon says without a thought. He takes the Stark cloak off her shoulders, and Sansa feels a pang of loss. This one was made especially for her, so they wouldn't have to borrow Aunt Lyanna's again. He drapes the Targaryen cloak around her, and she smiles. It's familiar enough, to have Jon's heavy cloak around her. It makes her feel warm and safe.

The High Septon declares them wed, forever and ever, and Jon takes Sansa's hand, gripping it tightly in his own. He pulls her close and she smiles, letting him press a quick, chaste kiss to her lips.

They turn to leave the Sept, and Lyanna and Catelyn look to be on the verge of tears, Ned's eyes are glassy, and Daenerys and Rhaenys are smiling and waving as they pass. Even Aegon looks happy, a small smile on his face.

* * *

The Great Hall is as grand as it was for Aegon's wedding, but instead of red and pink and yellow roses, they are white and blue, and the hall is decorated with flakes of gold and silver and fake snow.

Upon their arrival to the hall, Sansa's eyes tear up at the bunches of flowers in each corner and table. It even _smells_ like home.

The food is served as soon as everyone is seated. Rhaegar stands and toasts his youngest son and his bride, much as he had for Aegon and Margaery.

The hall of revellers raise their goblets and cheer while Jon and Sansa look down at their plates with flushed faces. Lyanna discreetly dabs at her eyes with a napkin, mad at herself for acting like a silly girl. Catelyn reaches her arm across the dais and takes Lyanna's hand. Grey eyes meet blue and Catelyn smiles at her goodsister. Lyanna offers a watery smile back. They're both ridiculous, women grown, crying at their children's weddings.

The appetizers are cleared and before the main course is served, the music starts. Sansa looks at Jon and he offers her his hand. She seems surprised, and she smiles at him. Jon will dance despite his indifference towards the activity for Sansa's smiles. He'll do anything for her, he thinks. Sense tells him he shouldn't, that a man should not bend to his wife's wishes so easily. But she's Sansa and he's Jon and it's always been them. Even when they were children running around Winterfell, they were drawn to each other. Both were mindful of their courtesies, listened to Lord and Lady Stark more than the rest of Sansa's siblings, and while they may have distanced themselves from each other the older they got, they were still, well, _them_.

They glide (Sansa glides, he stomps) onto the dance floor in the Great Hall, and pulls her close to him. She presses her chin onto his shoulder, for she's nearly as tall as he is. He breathes in the lavender in her hair and sighs contentedly. Nothing can tear them apart now, not the King, not Aegon, not the gods, nothing.

Lyanna and Rhaegar take to the floor, as do Aegon and Margaery. The younger couple twirls towards the newlyweds.

"Sansa, we're sisters now," Margaery says with a bright smile.

Aegon nods, gazing at his wife. Sansa struggles to hide a laugh. Aegon never really _liked_ her, he just wanted what Jon had. Except now Aegon is wed to the prettiest girl in all the Seven Kingdoms (or so they say, but they say the same of Sansa, Daenerys, Rhaenys, and of Allyria Dayne, and Myrcella Martell) and quite possibly the cleverest.

"I've always wanted an older sister," Sansa says with a smile. It looks genuine enough, but Jon can tell it's forced. She misses Arya. They all miss Arya.

"We'll have so much fun," Margaery grins, and now Sansa's smile is real.

Aegon and Jon share a look, and the two decide to separate their wives before they're forgotten entirely.

Jon's dance is interrupted when Ned Stark swoops in to dance with his daughter, and Jon ends up finding himself dancing with Lady Catelyn.

"Aunt Catelyn," he greets.

"I suppose I'm your aunt and mother-in-law now," Catelyn points out, and Jon nods.

"It's not…strange is it?"

"No, my dear. It's not," Catelyn says calmly, reassuringly, in the way only she can, and the way Sansa's learned to do. "You came to us when you were a boy, yes, and we tried not to treat you so differently from the children…"

"But I'm not your son," Jon finishes, "not part of the pack."

Jon looks down and Catelyn lifts his chin up, blue eyes unflinching.

"Never think you're not part of this family. You are Targaryen in name but Stark in spirit and heart. For a long time I thought I was an outsider, too," she says.

Jon scoffs, because his aunt seems so at home in Winterfell.

"It's true. I thought I was out of my element, a fish surrounded by wolves," Catelyn explains, then smiles, "but I was wrong. Just yesterday Cersei Martell frowned at me and said I've become a real she-wolf in my later years."

She's smiling, practically laughing at the intended insult Lady Cersei flung at her. Jon smiles, too. It's not an insult at all.

"You're just as much a Stark as any of us. Keep my daughter safe and happy," she says, adding a request.

"Of course, my lady," Jon nods, and Catelyn pats his shoulder.

Across the floor, Sansa dances with her father.

"Are you sure you're okay to dance so much?" Ned asks, glancing at his daughter's imperceptible belly.

"Father, please, it's my wedding day. Let me dance as much as I want," Sansa requests.

"If you and Jon ever want to return to Winterfell," Ned lowers his voice, and Sansa grins.

"We're planning on requesting a leave tomorrow," Sansa whispers.

Ned lets out a relieved smile and presses a kiss to his daughter's forehead.

"They've made a dragon out of you," he sighs.

"No, we've officially made Jon a wolf," Sansa corrects, earning a laugh.

Ned loves his nephew as his own, and is glad his daughter is in good hands.

After much dancing, eating, and celebrating, the crowd thins as those with young children retire for the evening.

It nears time for the bedding and the women begin to gather around Jon, and the men around Sansa.

"There will be none of this," Jon announces, jaw set in annoyance.

The girls back away and he stalks over to where Sansa is surrounded. They scatter away from the cross prince. Jon lifts Sansa off her feet with ease, and carries her out of the Great Hall, much to the amusement of most wedding guests.

"How barbaric," Cersei mutters into her goblet of wine.

Ellaria and Oberyn had disappeared ages ago, and Tyrion, finally being useful for something, distracts Myrcella from the shy smiles of the Stark boy.

She sees Rhaegar and Lyanna smiling and laughing, and pours herself another drink. She should've been Queen. Her father had promised her that. She would be Queen and her son would be a king. Now her father's dead, Jaime's at the Wall, and all she has is some silly Dornish title proclaiming her a princess, a husband who ignores her, and a daughter. _At least in Dorne daughter can inherit_, she tries to comfort herself with that thought. She should have listened to Jaime. She should have married him. If the Targaryens could sin why couldn't Lannisters? She will see Jaime again, one day.

_What are you doing, dear brother? _she wonders.

* * *

_THE WALL_

"Fucking shitting fuck," Jaime mutters under his breath, rubbing his hands together.

It's bloody cold up North, and even colder at the Wall. Stark's brother, Benjen, had disappeared beyond the Wall weeks ago, and there was no word yet. It's been twenty years, and Lord Commander Mormont still looks at him like he's a common criminal.

Old Maester Aemon is the only one who shows him a little kindness besides the uneasy courtesies of Benjen Stark, but the man's blind and a fool, muttering about dragons and shooting stars and whatnot. Jaime scoffs. Clearly he and his great-great-great (great?) grand nephew share the same delusions, and Cersei wanted to marry Rhaegar, once upon a time.

He sours at the thought of Rhaegar, of the entire Targaryen lot. Prince Rhaegar stole himself a bride like a damned wildling and thousands paid for it in blood. Now the news is that both princes are getting married. They say eldest looks like a combination of Elia Martell and his father, while it's said the youngest looks more like Ned Stark than the man's own children.

_How well did you love your sister, Ned_? Jaime thinks to himself. When he heard old Ned's nephew is to marry Ned's daughter, he burst out laughing. Benjen had sent him a glare when Jaime asked if they're entirely sure the prince isn't Ned's son, given the descriptions of him.

It's lucky Benjen didn't run him through then and there. Jaime would rather live to see the next day, because he has hope he'll see Cersei again one day. He lives through the cold and shovelling out these damned stables, hands frozen around the wooden handle, for Cersei. _Live for Cersei, live for Tyrion._

* * *

_KING'S LANDING_

Jon sets Sansa gently down on the featherbed in their chambers, having carried her up the winding staircases and down the corridors. She smiles at him, and he grins, untying his leather jerkin.

Sansa stands and her fingers move deftly and Jon stares at her, transfixed. Her eyes don't meet his and he places his hands on her shoulders and nudges her forehead with his. She looks up, and he kisses her. Her hands let go of the ties and she wraps her arms around his neck, running her fingers through the curls of his hair. His cheek doesn't burn against hers since he's clean-shaven for once, but she doesn't want the stubbly in-between period between this and his beard. She likes his usual beard.

Jon removes the pins from her hair as best he can with his eyes closed, and Sansa laughs against his mouth. She breaks the kiss and quickly takes out the pins and the braids fall away, Catelyn's work undone. Jon wonders how girls are so good at that without even looking in a mirror. Before he has time to ponder it, Sansa is kissing him again and he's so, so happy.

Sansa steers him onto the bed and settles onto his lap.

"My wife," he mumbles, alternating between kissing her mouth and her neck.

"We've been married for a bit now," she refers to their elopement.

"Now I don't have to hide it," he says, looking up at her.

"Never again, my dear husband," she reaches behind her to unlace her dress.

Jon takes her hand and she shifts, turning around. Jon pulls at the ties, watching them come undone. Sansa gathers her hair over one shoulder and Jon pulls the dress down, the bodice pooling at her waist. He then turns his attention to the shift over her smallclothes. He damns the layers she wears and works quickly. Sansa stands, letting the dress fall to the floor and soon the shift goes with it. Jon's fingers ghost across her bare skin and she shivers.

She turns back around, barely covered in the gauzy fabric. Her stomach is still flat, but there's a barely perceptible roundness beginning to take shape. Jon tilts his head and Sansa smiles at the wonder on his face.

His hand finds its way to rest on her stomach and she tells him they won't be able to feel much for quite a while.

"But you're feeling well? No more nausea…?" Jon asks.

"I'm fine, Jon. More than fine," she says.

Jon pulls her close again and wraps his arms around her, head resting between her breasts and stomach.

"Can you hear anything?" she asks in amusement.

He furrows his brow, trying to concentrate. He hears Sansa's heartbeat, but it sounds distant.

"Jon," Sansa says quietly.

He looks up.

"You're overdressed," she informs him.

She pulls him to his feet and rids him of the leather jerkin that had been forgotten, then pulls the black tunic over his head. She unlaces his black breeches and she bites back a retort that he could join the Night's Watch with Uncle Benjen, what with one of the main Targaryen colors being black.

He steps out of them and Sansa presses a kiss to his lips.

"Sansa," Jon strokes her hair that glows in the candlelight.

"They're going to want to see blood, Jon," Sansa reminds him.

"I have a plan," Jon moves away from her and pulls the covers on the bed back. He takes a small dagger out of a drawer next to the bed and brings it to his palm.

"Don't you dare," Sansa snaps, taking the dagger from him.

"It'll just be a small cut," Jon says, "to preserve your honor—"

"To the seven hells with my honor. _You_ took my maidenhead. We weren't married then, but we are now. The servants already gossip and the courtiers wouldn't dare say anything about the prince's wife," Sansa tries to reason, "and when the baby is born earlier than expected—"

Now, Jon interrupts. She has given a speech that was very similar once before, on the day they took each other's maidenheads.

"We'll announce that we were secretly wed in the godswood nearly two moons ago, married under the sight of the old gods, with Arya as a witness, as not to upstage Aegon's wedding," Jon says.

Sansa lets out a relieved smile, and Jon takes her hand. She sits down on his lap and kisses him slowly. Her fingers dig into his back, and before she knows it she's on the bed and Jon looms above her.

"I love you," he says quietly, drawing his thumb in circles on her leg.

"And I love you," she closes her eyes, letting Jon draw his fingers higher up her leg. Gods, they don't have to hide anymore. She smiles and Jon kisses her.

* * *

_BRAAVOS_

After a few weeks, Arya isn't as pale as she had been. She had been burned red and blistering for several days, but her skin is now a few shades darker from the sun. Gendry is even darker that she is, what with him being tanner than her from the beginning. He even teased her about his fair lady's delicate skin.

Arya smiles to herself, and shakes her head. She's walking towards the smithy, Needle sheathed at her side. She drags her hand along the stone walls distractedly.

Her path is suddenly blocked.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing all by yourself?" a young man asks in the Braavosi dialect of Valaryian.

Arya scowls and tries to move past him. He tries to put his hands on her and she unsheathes Needle, sticking it against his side. His eyes widen and he backs away.

"Crazy bitch," he mumbles, taking off in the opposite direction.

Arya rolls her eyes and continues on her way, Needle still in her hand. She gets strange looks from some men and women, but she's used to that. The Acadamy where Syrio had trained still won't give her the time of day and sometimes she hates being a girl. She wishes Syrio were here so he can vouch for her, but he's still in King's Landing.

She sighs. Today is Jon's and Sansa's wedding. She hopes it's nice, and she hopes they're happy. Mother and Father and Bran and Rickon are there, too. A tear pricks at her eyes but she blinks it back. She made her choice. Gendry is her family now. If they can't accept him, then she won't ever go back.

* * *

_KING'S LANDING_

The announcement that Jon and Sansa had eloped, and that the wedding was just a formality, causes quite a buzz. Now they are all at breakfast together, and Rhaegar announces he has gifts for his children.

A servant sets an ornate wooden crate on the table, and Rhaegar opens it.

Dragon eggs. One of each of his children.

"One for Aegon, for his wedding," he hands a large egg to his eldest son, "one for Rhaenys for her impending travels," he continues, and Rhaenys takes it carefully, "and one for Jon, for his wedding."

Jon takes the egg as gingerly as Rhaenys had. Viserys glares up at his brother, mouth a thin line.

"Those should have been ours," he says suddenly, "mine and yours and Dany's."

"Viserys," Daenerys tries to soothe her brother.

"No!" he shouts, standing, "they aren't true Targaryens! Martells and Starks, the lot of them. We're the last ones, don't you see? The last pure Targaryens. Those dragon eggs should be ours," he begins to rant.

"Viserys, sit down," Daenerys's voice is as cold as ice, and she tugs on her brother's sleeve.

He turns to glare at his sister now, "You're okay with this?"

"They are our niece and nephews," Dany says calmly, controlling her temper.

"They're no dragons," Viserys sneers, and steps away from the table. He stalks off to sulk in private and Daenerys closes her eyes for a moment to calm herself.

"I'm sorry about your uncle, children," Rhaegar says, sitting down, "let's just enjoy breakfast, shall we?"

Sansa grips Jon's hand tightly under the table. Margaery tries to coax a smile out of Aegon, and Lyanna decides to strike up a conversation with Rhaenys.

Ned and Catelyn look at each other, then around the rest of the table. Ned's _this_ close to taking Sansa and Jon back to Winterfell with them without even asking. Bran looks pensive, and Rickon mumbles about angry people ruining his appetite.

"Father, we'd like to go to Winterfell with Lord and Lady Stark," Jon says, looking up from his meal.

Rhaegar's pale brows furrow and he glances at Lyanna. She bites her lip. Her son has chosen her brother and his wife over his own parents. It stings.

"But the child," Rhaegar starts.

"I'm fine to travel, your grace. We'd reach Winterfell in a moon's turn. Please, I haven't been home in three years," Sansa's eyes look watery, as if she's about to cry.

_And I've not been home in twenty_, Lyanna thinks, not counting the short visit for Jon's thirteenth nameday almost seven years ago.

"Please let Sansa and Jon come home," Rickon pipes up, all childish innocence.

"It'll be a honeymoon," Aegeon says with a small smile.

"We could go to Highgarden," Margaery suggests, trying to ease the tension, "after all the future king should see the lands he will one day govern."

Sansa has to smile at Margaery for sounding so warm and clever all at once. The future queen has a head for politics.

Rhaegar takes a sip of honeyed wine and slams the goblet on the table.

"My children will not be leaving. Rhaenys and Daenerys off travelling is one thing, but you two, cowing to your wives' wishes is an entirely different matter. They are no longer a Stark and a Tyrell. They are Targaryens."

Lyanna sends a cool glare to Rhaegar, "They are men grown and don't need your permission, _your grace_."

"King Rhaegar, please do let Sansa and Jon come to visit. It's not like they'll be staying long. Just enough to quell her homesickness," Catelyn says diplomatically.

"I'm going, too," Lyanna says, "if Jon goes, I go."

"Lyanna," Rhaegar starts, then sighs, "Very well. Arrangements will be made. And when do you two wish to visit Highgarden?"

"In two weeks' time, perhaps," Aegon says, and Margaery nods with a small smile.

* * *

Daenerys and Rhaenys leave first, going with the Martells to Dorne first. From there, they'll take a ship to the Free Cities. Quentyn still tries to charm Daenerys, but she deflects his attentions onto Rhaenys, who stays quiet.

They will be away from King's Landing for several moons. By the time they return, Sansa's child will likely be born.

Before they leave, Dany hugs her nephews close, and even hugs Viserys. She hugs Rhaegar and promises she'll take care of Rhaenys. A member of the Kingsguard, Ser Arys, goes with them, more for Rhaeneys's protection than Dany's.

She wishes Sansa good health, and curtsies to the Starks. Bran Stark looks a bit dismayed by Myrcella's departure as Cersei Martell ushers her into the wheelhouse.

Myrcella stops before going inside, turns around, and waves.

"Bye, Bran," she smiles at him.

Bran waves back, and Catelyn frowns slightly. Bran is far too young to be preoccupied with girls already. Cersei has a similar look on her face, and their gazes meet. At least they can agree on this.

Rhaenys is busy saying goodbye to her father, stepmother, and brothers. She hugs Jon and Aegon, then Lyanna, then finally Rhaegar.

"You remind me so much of your mother," Rhaegar sighs, "the moment you wish to return home…" he trails off.

"I know, Father," she smiles at him.

She leaves his embrace, says goodbye to her goodsisters and the assembled in-laws, then departs with Daenerys and the Martells.

* * *

The Starks leave next. Rhaenys had taken her dragon egg with her, as if possessed by some force greater than her, and Jon is now doing the same. His egg rests in a small, cushioned box. Sansa had looked at him strangely, and he shrugged.

"If you found a direwolf, would you keep it?" he had asked.

"I don't know," Sansa replied, pursing her lips, "maybe, if it was a pup."

"This is a dragon pup, then."

"Jon, you know there haven't been any dragons for ages and ages."

"I know."

He doesn't tell her about his dreams of strange creatures with shockingly blue eyes or howling wind and snow. He doesn't tell her of the fires and the burning buildings and burning bodies. They're just dreams, after all.

Jon and Sansa bid farewell to Margaery, Viserys, Aegon, and Rhaegar. Rhaegar looks solemn, and Sansa can now see the resemblance between him and Jon.

Rhaegar kisses Lyanna's cheek, and she looks at him tiredly.

"We'll be back," she says simply.

"Will you?" Rhaegar asks, knowing she's longed for the North for so long.

Lyanna sighs, "My stupid prince."

His mouth tugs into a small smile. If she still insults him like that, there's still hope. Perhaps some time apart will do them both good.

Without further fanfare, Jon and Ned mount their horses, surrounded by a guard of Stark bannermen. Sansa, Catelyn, Lyanna and the boys sit in the wheelhouse, and soon they're out of sight of the Red Keep. Lyanna thinks she'll ride later, but for that she'll wait until they're on the Kingsroad. She refused a Kingsguard accompaniment, saying that she and Jon are perfectly safe.

Ned glances at Jon as they ride, and he speaks quietly.

"I will be going to Storm's End shortly after our arrival home," he says.

"What, why?" Jon asks.

"Lord Baratheon wishes to find his nephew and Arya. He asked the King to legitimize him as heir to the Storm Lands since he's Robert's eldest son, but the King refused."

Jon's jaw set tightly, and his grip on the reigns strengthened.

"Why would Father refuse?" Jon asks in confusion, "Arya's reputation will remain in tact, the smith could become a lord and they'd still get to be together."

Jon doesn't understand why his father does not wish for Arya to be found. Aegon is wed and happy with Margaery. Arya's in no danger from that, nor is she likely to accept any offers for her hand. All he wants is for his family to be together and happy again, and his father is destroying his hopes. He wonders why his uncle tells him this now, but he doesn't dwell on it.

"Old grudges, I'm afraid," Ned says with a sigh, "Robert was my best friend. The least I can do is make sure his son is safe and cared for. If I had known he had a son with no mother, I should've looked after him. I knew about the older girl, but her mother is still alive…" Ned trails off, lost in thought. He failed Brandon and Father, and he failed Robert. Sometimes he thinks he failed Lyanna, too. Lyanna and Jon, both. But they're coming home now. Once they find Arya and Robert's son (_Gendry_, Ned reminds himself to use the boy's name) everything will be all right.

* * *

**Up next: Travels North, more from Braavos, travels from Dorne across the Narrow Sea, a departure for Highgarden with an extra guest (coughRenlyandLorascough) and plotting. This is starting to get really, really convoluted. Then again, it's called _A Tangled Web_ for a reason. Thank you for reading.  
**


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